


we will not give up on love now

by elizaham8957



Series: find me here amidst the chaos [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Belonging, Canon Divergent, F/M, Family, Fix It Fic, Fluff, GOD they deserved better, Healing, Romance, Weddings, a bunch of them - Freeform, and jon loves her more than anything, and kiddos, because that is just ridiculous, dany is not a mad queen, everything these characters deserved, from halfway through 8x05 on, growing together, i went all in on this fix it au, i'm not salty i swear, mentions of arya/gendry and sansa/lemon cakes, seriously i tried to fix all the shitty plotlines, the ending that these characters deserved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 22:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18903802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: “Let me come with you,” he says, voice soft. Her heart leaps, pounding in her chest, and she wants nothing more in the world than to give in, to melt into his embrace before running away with him. But she is not entirely sure that is what Jon wants.“Are you sure?” she asks him, already bracing herself for disappointment. “All of your family is here.”“Dany, you’re my family.” His voice is impossibly gentle, and she lets him tug her into his arms, press his forehead against hers. She exhales shakily in his embrace, hardly daring herself to believe he means it. “I’m going to try, remember?”“Okay,” she says, nodding. She revels in the warmth of his touch, the hope blossoming in her chest at his promise.





	we will not give up on love now

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. 
> 
> So. That finale gutted me. I've never reacted as viscerally to a movie or TV show before as I did last night, and it's still with me right now. I can't think about the finale or the show in general without bursting into tears on the spot. Dany is one of my very, very favorite characters of all time, and watching her character be assassinated and then her be murdered so cruelly after the absolutely incredible, powerful, and inspirational arc she has had these past seven seasons hit me really hard. You deserved so much better, my queen. You deserved the throne and the world you wanted to build. And I will never be able to forgive this show for tearing you down so quickly and so unjustly. 
> 
> That being said, I started this last week as a sort of "I'll just write something quick that bridges the gap between the last two scenes in my last fic and is basically just Jonerys fluff!" and then it... snowballed. Really quickly. I figured if I was going to write a fix-it au, I might as well try to fix everything that was damaged in this last season. This is my love letter to these characters and what I think they should have gotten in the end based on the beginning of season 8, but most importantly, it's my love letter to Dany. I don't think I'll ever write canon fics again after last night, but this is the ending I will hold in my heart for her. The soft, happy ending she deserves after so much suffering. I wrote this to comfort myself, and I don't know if there's even anyone else in this fandom who still believes in these two, but if so, I hope this comforts you as well. It's canon compliant through about halfway through 8x05, for the record, and a sequel to the first story in this series, so you should probably read that first, though I suppose you don't *have* to. 
> 
> A million thanks to Fer for reading this and assuring me the Sansa parts were good and justified, and that the almost-smut wasn't too cringey to read, though I still don't believe her. I don't think I would have made it through this season without you, girl. I hope this helps ease the pain you're feeling too, and that this is an ending you can imagine for all of these guys. 
> 
> Title is from Orpheus by Sara Bareilles. I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter as well. 
> 
> Dany, my sun and stars, this one is for you.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146793737@N07/47106665564/in/dateposted-public/)

There is something liberating about watching the Iron Throne melt down.

Drogon roars again, great black wings beating against the clear blue sky, his flames licking at the cursed metal chair. With every sword point that crumples, every blade that reduces down to nothing, Daenerys feels herself grow lighter. It’s a strange feeling, to grow happier as she watches the throne she had chased for so long disappear into nothing, but Dany has come to realize that the Iron Throne was never what she truly wanted. All that time with the Dothraki, the years spent in Essos, every hardship she endured— she always thought of the throne to get herself through. She always thought that was all that mattered: reclaiming her family’s right, _her_ birthright. It was a connection to the lineage she had never known, the centuries of rulers in her family that came before her. Dany had always thought taking the Iron Throne would be her homecoming, that sitting in the Red Keep would finally give her a place to belong. But as she stands in King’s Landing now, surveying the city, she knows this is not the place where she belongs. She had saved these people, yes, even though they had hated her. But she will never find a home in this city, no matter how long she tries.

Dany is done trying. She doesn’t want to rule anymore. She just wants a place to belong. And deep inside her, she knows that place is not Westeros.

Next to her, Jon shifts closer to her, almost imperceptibly. Her heart still aches from their conversation on the cliffs of Dragonstone, his ardent determination to make it work between them. Her heart feels flayed, raw and tender still, from the way he had turned from her before the battle, from the way he had ignored her pleas and told his sister of his heritage. But it does not matter now, she supposes. There will be no more king in Westeros. She will break the wheel for these people, even if they do not want her here. Because she will save them, give them better lives, as has always been her goal.

It has never been about the Throne. It has always been about helping others. But the Iron Throne will help no one. And Dany thought, perhaps, that if she saved the people of Westeros, they would accept her, want her as their own. She can see the error in that now. So she will save them, and then she will search for the place she belongs somewhere else.

As the seat of the throne collapses, the metal glowing red hot from Drogon’s flames, Jon reaches for her hand, twining their fingers together. Her heart thumps, warmth blooming in her chest hesitantly, hardly daring herself to wish for such comfort after suffering so much pain. But perhaps, she hopes, she has already found a place where she belongs.

When it is all melted down, reduced to nothing but molten metal and ash, they all file back inside the Keep, the throne room strangely empty looking without the Iron Throne at the head of it. Everyone pauses— Grey Worm, Tyrion, Davos, Arya, Jon. All their eyes rest on her, waiting to see what she will do next, what she will command.

But Dany is done commanding. So she says nothing, and walks from the room.

She finds a chamber off the main hall that is smaller, with a table and chairs in the middle— the small council room, she assumes. No one has followed her, so she shuts the door, sitting at the table and folding her head into her hands. She is so tired, so weary. The battle is won, but she cannot remember the last time she felt this defeated.

The silence of the Keep echoes around her, calming and suffocating at the same time, stretching on forever. It feels like years later when she hears footsteps echo in the hall, the creak of the door as it swings open slowly.

Tyrion stands in the doorway, unmoving, hesitant, his hands clasped before him. She can see the look of trepidation on his face as she looks up, but she slowly bows her head anyway, permitting him enter. The man who was once her trusted advisor, someone she put all of her faith in, sits next to her, clearing his throat nervously, as if he has something to say, but does not know how to begin.

“I told you that if you betrayed me again, it would be for the last time,” Daenerys starts, voice low. Her eyes stay trained on the end of the table, though she can feel Tyrion’s gaze fall to her.

“Your grace,” he says, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not anyone’s queen now.”

They both stay silent, and Dany shuts her eyes, tries to sort out her feelings and thoughts. “I’m not going to punish you,” she tells him. “There will be no trial. Betraying Cersei, having Jaime take her from the city— that was clever. Cersei never would have left the Keep without taking it down with her, and all the people inside, innocent or no.” Dany inhales, blinking slowly. “However. I would have appreciated this plan more if it had been shared with me. Your queen, who you swore to obey.”

Tyrion opens his mouth to speak again, but she wants none of his clever words now. She just wants the truth.

“Tell me, Tyrion,” she says, almost pleading. “You told me once that you never believed in anything, but despite that, you believed in me. In the world I wanted to build. You believed I would be a good queen. Do you still believe that?” She pauses, finally meeting his eyes. “Or do you think I’ve gone mad as well?”

“I do believe in you,” he says, voice almost strangled. “Truly, I do. And I regret ever letting that belief waver. Please know this, Daenerys,” he begs. “When I began to doubt you, to think you could not handle it anymore— the losses, the death, the war— I did believe you could go mad. And I thought, however briefly, that perhaps Jon _would_ be a better ruler. But when the bells rang, and you flew away—” he swallows, shaking his head. “It was then I realized how wrong I had been. How utterly stupid it was to doubt you. I should have known that you could never break. Because you have faced things a hundred times worse, and every time, you have risen from the ashes, stronger than before.”

“I almost didn’t,” Daenerys admits, voice ashen. “I almost broke this time. I almost burned it all down.” She shakes her head. Even after Jon’s consoling, his comforting words on the cliffs of Dragonstone, she is not entirely sure she believes him. “Perhaps you were right to doubt me.”

“No,” Tyrion says, vehemently. “I was not. Varys was not, either. I should have stayed faithful, as I swore to do. You had every opportunity and every reason to become mad, and yet you did not. You stood strong, and you did the right thing. I betrayed you as much as the others, by not believing that you had the strength to do just that.”

Dany doesn’t know what to say to that— the sincerity of his words, the faith he still has in her makes her heart squeeze. She had believed that she had lost everyone, but it seems that Tyrion, at least, still has faith in her. Silently, she reaches over, covering his hand with hers and squeezing it in gratitude.

“So what will you do now?” Tyrion asks. “The world is yours. You won the war. The wheel is broken. What happens to you now?”

“I don’t know,” Dany says, inhaling.

“Did you really mean it?” Tyrion aks. “Do you really mean not to rule?”

“I did,” she tells him. Of that, at least, she is certain. “It matters not if I break the wheel if the wheel does not remain broken. How can I possibly assure that the rulers that follow me do not create a new one?” She shakes her head. “If the people choose their own rulers, like in Meereen, then it becomes harder for the strong to prey on the weak. The country can be run by a committee selected, with representatives, noble and common, from each region.”

Tyrion hesitates. “I think it’s a good idea,” he says. “But I also think that you would be a good queen. The queen that these people need.”

“I don’t want to be queen anymore,” Dany says, closing her eyes. She can feel the tears pricking behind them, the pain that has been building and building for so long finally becoming too much. It makes sense, what Tyrion says. But still. There’s more than just her to consider.

“I know it seems foolish, and rash,” she admits. “To put aside everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve ever wanted. But I’ve thought about this. And I realize now that I have it— this is never what I _truly_ wanted. What I truly wanted was a place to belong.” She shakes her head. “And this is not it.”

“It will take time for the world to adjust,” Tyrion tells her. “You can’t just put a new system of government into effect overnight. It won’t take hold.”

“I know,” she says. “Someone will have to lead. To help the people adjust to the new reality. To guide them into the new world.”

“But that person won’t be you?” Tyrion asks. Dany shakes her head, the barest ghost of a smile on her lips.

“No,” she says. “I will stay, until the rubble is cleared, and the city is stable again. But it could take years to establish a new government. And I will not stay that long.”

“Who will lead the people, then?” Tyrion asks. “Once you are gone? Until the new system is in place?”

“I was hoping you would,” she says, and her Hand looks taken aback, blinking at her slowly.

“I do not take your betrayal lightly, Tyrion,” she says, and his mouth closes, expression apprehensive once again. “But I believe that you thought as you did because you had the people of this country in your best interests. While I wish your faith in me had never wavered, I hope that my belief in you is not misplaced. Because I _do_ still believe in you, as well.”

“Daenerys,” Tyrion says, voice thick. “Are you sure?”

“From what I gather, the time you ran this country as Joffrey’s Hand was the best time it has known since before the Rebellion,” she says. “I believe that you can do this. I hope that I do not come to doubt you as you did me. For know this,” she says, leaning forward. “If I learn that you have used this power to take control of the kingdom, to destroy what I worked for, what so many who followed me _died_ for…” she pauses, sitting back. “I will take Drogon and fly from wherever I may be, and I will have him burn you alive.”

“I promise you, my queen,” Tyrion says gravely. “I will never betray you again.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Dany says, and the sincerity in Tyrion’s voice makes her truly believe him.

“One last thing,” Tyrion says, his eyes casting down. “You have every reason to have no faith in me ever again. It is what I deserve, and I would hold no blame to you for it.” He pauses, exhaling. “You told me Jon Snow betrayed you as well.” It is then that Tyrion looks up, meeting her eyes. “But know this. He never once doubted you. His belief never wavered. Not for a single second.”

Dany swallows, eyes sliding closed. She still loves Jon, of course. There has been a lightness to her heart since that day on the cliffs, when he asked her to be patient with him. When he assured her that he still loves her as well. But the sting of betrayal is still there, her heart still raw and bleeding after everything it was put through. As much as she wants to forget his ignorance to her pleas, she cannot. Not entirely.

But Tyrion’s words are like a balm to her flayed heart, soothing and cooling the wounds still there. Even in her darkest hour, even when no one else had faith in her, Jon still did. Jon always believed in her, even when the rest of the world had written her off.

“Thank you, Tyrion,” she whispers, and he nods once, slowly, before standing and leaving the room.

***

The rebuilding of the city walls goes slowly, as does the preparation to give the power to the people of the country. Dany helps as much as she can, but most of the work falls to Tyrion, who takes it on with a determination that reminds her of when he first served her. She can see, after several weeks in the capital, that his words ring true, and he will indeed serve the people well.

Jon remains with her, though his sister leaves for Winterfell with Jaime Lannister, who thanks her for her mercy and claims he has another woman to apologize to in the North. Yara Greyjoy sails from the Iron Islands at Dany’s request, and gratefully accepts her request to serve the people as representative from her home. Gendry Baratheon returns to King’s Landing almost a month after the fighting stops, Arya Stark by his side, and tells her that he will gladly represent the Stormlands, if she still deems him worthy. And even though Dany is proud, and she does not trust Sansa Stark, she cannot deny that the woman is fiercely loyal and protective of the North. She ran Winterfell solely by herself while Jon asked for her support in the War for the Dawn, and she has protected it now after the Night King’s defeat. So she sends her a raven, with Jon’s signature as well, asking her to come to King’s Landing and accept her offer as Warden of the North. Slowly, she and Tyrion write to nobles and commoners alike, choosing the panel of advisors that will govern the new world she has created, that will guide the country until they can select leaders of their own.

The time passes quickly, but still, there is an itch under Dany’s skin, a longing to leave this place, this crowded city. Grey Worm sails for Naath with a ship from the remains of Dany’s fleet and the surviving Unsullied, and his goodbye is the first truly sorrowful one for her. “I promised to protect her people,” Grey Worm tells her, and Dany nods, blinking back tears. Though she will miss him dearly, she understands. He needs to move on from this place. And soon, she will as well.

“Build something nice for her there,” she requests, and Grey Worm nods. “She was the best person I have ever known. Make sure they know of her braveness, and kindness. Make sure she is not forgotten.”

That night, she begins to pack her trunks. This city holds nothing for her anymore, and she must find her way somewhere else.

It feels strange, to shut all her possessions away again, with no clue what the future may hold for her. But there is something hopeful about it as well, something that takes hold in her chest and allows her to dream again, that she may find a new place that feels more like home to her than this city does.

“Are you leaving?” she hears in her doorway, and Dany jumps, startled. Jon stands against the doorframe, his expression one that she cannot read.

“Not yet,” she tells him, straightening up. “But soon. I’m not staying here.”

“Where will you go?” he asks, taking a step farther into the room. She smiles slightly, because she had not known until right now.

“Braavos,” she tells him. The place from her childhood. Maybe she will find a house, paint the door red, and grow lemon trees. Maybe then she will feel at home, finally.

She expects Jon to nod, to leave her in silence to pack her things. She has given him time and space, just as he asked, for these past weeks. It still hurts, to be so distant from him when he once was her everything, but sometimes she catches him looking at her, that shine in his eyes, a smile pulling at his lips, and her pain disappears in the warmth of his gaze.

But instead of leaving, Jon steps closer, taking her hand in his. Her heart stutters at the contact, the feeling of his calloused palm against her own.

“Let me come with you,” he says, voice soft. Her heart leaps, pounding in her chest, and she wants nothing more in the _world_ than to give in, to melt into his embrace before running away with him. But she is not entirely sure that is what _Jon_ wants.

“Are you sure?” she asks him, already bracing herself for disappointment. “All of your family is here.”

“Dany, _you’re_ my family.” His voice is impossibly gentle, and she lets him tug her into his arms, press his forehead against hers. She exhales shakily in his embrace, hardly daring herself to believe he means it. “I’m going to try, remember?”

“Okay,” she says, nodding. She revels in the warmth of his touch, the hope blossoming in her chest at his promise. Hesitantly, she leans up to kiss his cheek, and she can feel him smile below her lips, his hand threading through her hair as he cups her face in his hands.

“Is it alright if I come with you?” Jon asks, his brow furrowing suddenly. “I should have asked first. Do you want me to?”

She almost laughs, biting at her lip to unsuccessfully suppress the grin threatening to break out across her face. “There is nothing I want more,” she assures him, her hand resting against his cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone. He smiles at her softly, and it is the same way he used to look at her, back before they knew the truth, before war and politics and everything else in the world had pulled them apart. His eyes close as he leans down, capturing her lips with his, and Dany melts into him.

She has given Jon space, as he requested, and she has not exactly had much idle time in the past weeks for them to be together anyway. But the feeling of Jon’s lips against hers again, warm and pliant and wanting, stitches her heart back together, soothes the gashes in it. He still wants her, still loves her. He is going to come to Braavos with her, and there, they can rebuild what they had, from the beginning. With no politics or thrones or anything to tear them apart this time.

“When do we leave?” he asks when they finally separate, though they do not pull apart, his nose nudging against hers.

“I don’t know,” Dany tells him. “Soon.”

“Alright,” Jon tells her, pressing another kiss to her lips— this one shorter, but no less sweet. Hope blooms in her chest, as delicate as the first buds of spring, but warmth spreads through her at the feeling. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

That night, after Dany finishes packing, Jon comes to her again, his leathers and sword gone, stripped bare of his armor before her. He has a piece of parchment in his hand, curled around his finger.

“What is it?” Dany asks, and fear rushes through her suddenly, sure he is about to tell her something has changed, that he can’t come with her anymore. He looks down at the scroll again, before meeting her eyes again, his lips curled up in a smile.

“Arya’s getting married,” he says, and Dany just blinks, as that was the last thing she was expecting to hear.

“She is?” Dany asks, trying to picture Arya in a beautiful dress, walking down an aisle towards someone. She had wondered, when Jon’s youngest sister had accompanied Gendry Baratheon to King’s Landing, if there was something between them. But the image conjured in her mind seems  like the very opposite of the fierce warrior Dany has come to know in the past months.

“Aye,” Jon says, nodding like he cannot believe it either. “To Gendry. They want us both to come, next week in Storm’s End.”

Dany smiles, suddenly touched. She knows that Arya had been skeptical of her from the beginning, and her acceptance at such a special event means quite a lot to her. “I would be honored to,” Dany tells him, smile gentle.

“There’s something else,” Jon says, his mouth twisting slightly, and her heart drops again. “Sansa is coming as well. She’ll be there.”

Dany can feel her expression sour as well. Since the battle of King’s Landing, there has been no word from Jon’s sister, even after the raven they sent her. Even though she and Jon have not been as close as they once were, Dany knows that he has not spoken to her either.

“I’m still furious with her,” Jon says, shaking his head. “I swore her to secrecy, and she broke my trust. Her own _brother._ She told Tyrion the truth, the second my back was turned.”

“She thought she was protecting your family,” Dany says, stepping closer to him, taking his other hand. She weaves her fingers through his, trying to soothe the frustration wafting off of him. Dany does not agree with Sansa’s actions at all, but she can somewhat understand the other woman’s motives, corrupt as they may have been.

“She _betrayed_ her family,” Jon says, his words short. Dany raises a hand to his cheek, fingers brushing against his beard. “She had no right to tell anyone that.”

“Jon,” she says, and he looks down at her, eyes sad. “I know that you’re cross with her. I don’t blame you. But she is your family.” Dany smiles sadly, shaking her head. “Try to make peace with her. You’ll regret it otherwise, I know.” If she had any family left that she cared for as much as Jon and his siblings care for each other, she would regret letting anything come between them without at least trying to fix things.

“Alright,” he says, closing his eyes. “And then, can we leave for Braavos?”

Her heart squeezes, so overcome with love for him, this man who still wants to follow her across the world and away from everything he’s ever known.

“Yes,” she promises, and he smiles. “Then it will be just us.”

***

Dany says farewell to Tyrion before they leave for Storm’s End, with his promise to send her ravens with news regularly. She and Jon pack their trunks and set off, watching King’s Landing grow smaller and smaller from Drogon’s back. Jon’s arms wrap around her tightly, his mouth drawing closer to her ear.

“It’s a miserable, shit city anyways,” he says, and she laughs. “I feel bad for all the poor bastards stuck in it still.”

They reach Storm’s End in no time, Arya immediately tackling Jon in a hug. “Congratulations,” he tells his sister, and she rolls her eyes at him, though the smile on her face mirrors Jon’s. “I never thought I would see you get married, of all of us.”

“Blame him,” Arya says, nodding her head towards Gendry, who stands a step behind her. She laughs, though, her words just in jest. “Sansa almost died when I told her. She insisted on making me a cloak, although I still refuse to wear a bloody dress.” Dany smiles at that, Arya every bit still the warrior queen she remembers.

“You take care of my sister,” Jon tells Gendry, clapping the other man on the shoulder. Gendry nods seriously, his eyes resting on Arya, full of love.

“I will,” he promises. “Though I know she’s more likely to be taking care of me.”

Arya is true to her word— she does not wear a dress for the ceremony, and she declares that she will _not_ be a lady after everyone has had quite a few rounds of drinks at the feast afterwards. Dany sits next to Jon, watching him watch his sister, a happy smile upon his face that his favorite sibling has finally found a place that she belongs. Sansa sits next to her sister, joining in the next toast of the night, and she notices Jon’s smile stiffen when his eyes shift to her. He hasn’t spoken to her since their arrival, she is almost sure.

“You should speak to her in the morning,” Dany tells him, leaning in so that no one else hears. Jon sighs, dropping his head. “Before we leave.”

“Aye,” he admits, his gaze sad as it drifts back towards his sisters. “I will.”

She goes to find Jon in the morning, after she breaks her fast, and he immediately slips his hand into hers, pulling her closer into him. “I spoke with Sansa,” he tells her, and his eyes are clearer at the mention of his sister, not so burdened with pain. “Thank you for telling me to.” She just smiles, glad that they came to some sort of peace before they leave for Braavos.

“She wants to speak with you, too,” Jon says, and at that, Dany starts.

“Why?” she asks, but Jon just shrugs.

“I don’t know. She didn’t say. But she was still in her chambers, when I last saw her.”

Dany goes to find Sansa after saying her farewells to Arya and Gendry, who are both glowing with happiness. Dany is glad for them, truly, but there is still a slight twist of jealousy in her gut, seeing how happy they are. The looks on their faces remind her of those days in Winterfell, how light and carefree she had felt, suggesting to Jon that they stay by the waterfall forever. Back when he consumed her every thought, and the look in his eyes made her feel like a young blushing maid, foolish and in love with no other cares in the world. All she can do it hope, hope and believe that she and Jon will get back to that, someday.

Sansa is still in her chambers when Dany reaches them, calling her in when Dany knocks. The other woman’s sharp blue eyes dart to her face, apprehension written across her pretty porcelain features. “Lady Sansa,” she greets, trying to keep most of the hostility out of her voice.

“Your grace,” Sansa returns, but Dany shakes her head as she takes a seat across from the other woman.

“Not anymore,” Dany tells her. “I’m not the queen of anything now.”

“So it’s true,” Sansa says, brows rising. “You don’t intend to rule?”

“No, I do not,” Dany confirms. “I melted the Throne. The people of Westeros will not be crushed by its power anymore.”

Sansa looks down, at her hands folded on the desk. “I wanted to…” she pauses, considering her words. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior, when you were in Winterfell,” Sansa says, meeting her eyes. “You saved the North with your armies. And I repaid you by trying to put Jon on the throne, as soon as I knew that was an option. I told Tyrion his secret, and it was not mine to tell. And I fear it cost you greatly.”

Dany shakes her head. “Betraying your brother’s trust is between you and him. I have no say in that. But because of your actions, my advisors turned on me. They believed me mad and sought to name Jon the true king. Lord Varys tried to poison me, before I executed him.” Dany can see the nervousness behind Sansa’s calm facade, the spark of fear in her Tully blue eyes.

“I do not condone your actions. However,” Dany continues, “while I do not support them, I understand them. I know you, and the North, have suffered greatly under southern rulers. And while I wish that you had gone about it a different way, I can see how you believed you were acting with the best interests of your people.”

“I asked you, in Winterfell, what became of the North once you were Queen,” Sansa says, nodding slowly. “I have always acted with my people’s best interests at heart. I know the abuse they have suffered under southern rulers. And I wanted to protect them from that pain. As I was not protected.” She exhales, eyes closing slightly. “I had to endure so much torture under the Lannisters. And I thought, if I could help prevent even one person from suffering the pain I had to, then my actions would be worth it.”

Dany smiles, slightly. “We are not so different, you and I,” she says, and Sansa’s eyes snap to hers, surprised. “We both have been forced into terrible situations, made to survive things no one should ever have to endure. And yet, we have both emerged stronger. And instead of turning cruel from our pain, we have used it to spare others from suffering similar fates.”

Sansa’s expression softens at that, her lips curling into the slightest hint of a smile. “Yes, we have.” She pauses, reaching to cover Dany’s hand with her own. “And I am truly sorry that I doubted your strength, mistook it for madness. You did nothing to deserve my distrust, and yet it was all I gave you anyways.”

“It’s in the past now,” Dany insists, squeezing her hand back. “The gods know I am not entirely blameless in what happened between us. But I will not dwell on past mistakes. I want to assure that the lives of the people in this country are well cared for, before I leave it.”

“Jon told me you’re leaving,” she says. “You’re going to Braavos?” Dany nods, pulling her hand back, folding it into her lap.

“Yes. Today, actually. I have given everything I can to this place. Now I would like to find somewhere to live in peace.”

“You deserve it,” Sansa says, and the sincerity in her voice warms Dany’s heart. “And Westeros will be better for what you have done, I am sure of it.”

“And what you will do for it as well, I hope,” Dany says, Sansa’s brows raising. “I meant what I said when I sent you that raven. Westeros will be governed by a council, of both nobles and commoners, chosen by the people. And I can think of no one better to represent the North than you.”

Sansa remains silent for a moment, before looking up again, meeting Dany’s gaze. “I would be honored to,” she says, a smile playing at her lips, and Dany returns it with a smile of her own, slight but still warm.

She and Jon climb onto Drogon’s back that afternoon, their possessions packed, bound for their new life, and Dany feels confident, finally, that Westeros has truly been saved.

***

Dany is not sure how long they fly on Drogon’s back, the endless waters of the Narrow Sea, and then the grassy plains of the flatlands stretching below them. But her son’s warmth radiates from his scales, and Jon’s arms stay tightly wrapped around her waist, his chest pressed to her back snugly, and she can feel hope bloom in her chest, the light, airy feeling of freedom mixed with excitement, anticipation, for this new life they will build. It is slightly terrifying, but also exhilarating. She has no idea what awaits them in Braavos. It almost feels as if she is sailing for Westeros once again.

They find an inn on the shore that has room for them, right by the bustling docks of the city, where the sea breeze floats in through the open window of the room they rent. They have enough money to be comfortable for quite some time, but Dany still helps the innkeeper with the wash for extra coin, and learns to cook and clean from her as well as she helps around the inn. When she’s not working, she and Jon explore the city, wander the stone streets hand in hand. Everyone at the inn thinks them to be newlyweds, the young new couple that came from Westeros, and while it isn’t necessarily true, neither of them correct people’s assumptions. In the evening, they watch the sun set on the beaches, and laugh as Drogon swoops through the sky, diving for fish in the dusky evening air.

Two weeks after they arrive in Essos, Jon comes back to the inn and tells her he has a surprise for her, leading her outside the inn to a cart loaded with their few trunks, a horse tied to the front. She pulls a face at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she cannot fight the grin off of her lips either. “Trust me,” he whispers, taking her hand and pulling her into the cart, and she does, so she lets him.

He drives the cart along the sea shore, away from the bustle of the city, until they are climbing a sandy road to the bluffs overlooking the sea. They finally round a corner, and Dany gasps when she sees what Jon has brought her to.

“It’s ours,” Jon tells her, helping her down from the cart, and Dany blinks, barely able to believe her eyes. Nestled into the grassy knoll, with a gorgeous view of the Narrow Sea, is a tiny cottage, charming and weathered, with a stone walk and flowers growing beneath the windows. But the thing that takes her breath away is the sprawling grassy pasture behind the house, lemon trees full of blooms lining the weathered white fence. And if that isn’t enough, she is almost positive that her heart bursts at the sight of the front door, freshly painted and a bright cherry red color. It is not the same house from her childhood— she is not even sure where that is in Braavos, or if it would still hold its charm if she were to return to it— but this house, with its red door and its lemon trees, will be her new home. She knows it in her very soul.

 _“Jon,”_ she whispers, her heart so full of love that it is almost painful, beating as though it may jump from her chest at any moment. She had only mentioned the house from her childhood to him once, the two of them curled up in her bed on the journey to White Harbor, his arm wrapped around her waist, tracing up and down her spine as her fingers danced over the scars on his chest. And yet he remembered, went and found a place to make like her childhood, that house that held so many happy memories for her.

“Do you like it?” he asks, taking her hand, pulling her towards the house. She stops in the middle of the lawn, closing her eyes and inhaling, the sweet, citrusy scent of the lemon blooms making her toes curl in happiness. She cannot wait to spend the rest of her days here.

“It’s perfect,” she says, looking up at him, her fingers still tangled with his. The warmth in his eyes, the sheen of love and affection there, the small smile tugging at his lips just simply from making her happy— she cannot help it, she _has_ to kiss him. She snakes one hand around his neck, fingers brushing his raven curls, pulling his face down so that it is even with hers. She hesitates for a second, their lips a breath apart, unsure if he is ready, yet, but he leans in, closing the gap between them, lips warm and welcoming on hers. His hand drops hers so it may wrap around her waist, pulling her body into his as he kisses her ardently, more deeply than he has since that day at the frozen waterfalls, what feels like an entire lifetime ago.

The inside of the house is just as charming as the outside— smaller than the halls of Dragonstone, or the impressive towers of Winterfell, but it is all they need. A kitchen, two small bedrooms, and a wide open living space, with large windows to see the ocean. The door in the back of the house leads to the pasture in the back, and Dany laughs in delight when she sees the chickens pecking their way through the new spring grass. Besides the blooming lemon trees, there are other trees decorated with blossoms, and a large garden of fruits and vegetables. A barn is tucked into the back of the field, and there they discover goats and a stall for the horse. Jon painted the back door red as well, she can see, as she turns slowly in the field that is all _theirs,_ letting the delicate scent of new spring blooms wash over her, the salty air from the sea ruffling her hair and her skirts.

They haul the trunks inside, then spend the rest of the day exploring their new house, their new lands. When the sun finally sinks into the sea, turning the sky brilliant shades of pink and purple, they retire inside, ready for bed. Dany expects Jon to go to the other room across the hall, but he follows her into the larger bedroom, tugs off his outer layers like it is the most natural thing in the world, and climbs into bed next to her, looping his arms around her. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to, his heart beating directly beneath Dany’s ear. It has been so long since he held her like this, and she cherishes every second, reveling in his heavy touch on her lower back, heat sinking into her muscles from his large palm.

The next morning, Jon rises with the sun and presses a kiss to her forehead as he climbs out of their bed, before tugging the curtains closed to shield her from the bright morning sunlight. Dany smiles against his soft touch, snuggling back down into the blankets, content to bask in the peace and happiness of the early morning.

They fall into a routine— wake in the morning, care for the animals, tidy up their small cottage, tend to the gardens. Dany takes the eggs and the goat’s milk they don’t eat down to the market every day, trades with the other farmers for their food. She learns how to care for the trees and the gardens from the kindly old couple on the next farm over, and both she and Jon are surprised to discover that Dany has a knack for growing things, the garden flourishing under her care. She and Jon fumble their way through the kitchen— neither of them ever had any reason to cook before, and they laugh as they attempt it now. Sometimes meals are wildly delicious, and Dany writes down their discoveries in neat print on parchment, and sometimes their experiments end in disaster, both of them laughing and coughing as the kitchen fills with black smoke, throwing the doors open to air out the house. Jon manages to replicate the kidney pies he remembers from his childhood with mild success, and she holds his hand across the table as they eat that night, heart humming contently.

Jon picks up work at the docks sometimes in exchange for seafood the fishermen bring in, and they stroll the grassy cliffs overlooking the sea hand in hand, watching the waves crash below them. Drogon appears every few weeks or so, purring contently as Dany strokes his snout, before she and Jon climb on his back and soar into the sky with him. Dany takes her silky dresses from Meereen out as the heat of summer begins to return, the gentle warmth of spring fading away. Most of her old dresses are too ornate, and would feel silly and out of place in this small cottage, but there are a few simple enough that she wears. She fingers the gauzy fabric of one of them in the morning, the sheen of the white material catching the morning sunlight. It is a simple dress, the top twisted into a halter that ties around her neck, the entire back open down to the base of her spine, a belt keeping the skirt in place. She slips it on, reveling in the silky smooth feeling of the fabric, the warmth of the sunshine on her bare back. The sea breeze shifts the skirts, the fabric tickling against her legs as she picks her way across the pasture, over to the lemon trees, beginning to grow heavy with fruit.

Jon appears not long after, wearing only a thin tunic and breeches himself. He keeps complaining about the heat, to which Dany can only laugh, knowing that the worst of it is not yet even upon them, and her poor Northerner will most certainly have a difficult time adjusting to the climate. She opens her mouth to make a jest about the heat towards him, but then she sees the look in his eyes, and she freezes.

Their relationship now is unorthodox— that Dany knows. They live together, share a bed, and they love each other, but rarely does Jon touch her more intimately than holding her hand, pulling her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead when he rises for the day. She knows he needs time, and she is willing to give it to him; just being with him in this cottage, in this new life they are building, is enough for her. But while her heart thumps happily every day in this life they have together, there is a part of her that still mourns what they had. She longs for his heated touches, the feeling of his lips mapping her body, the scrape of his beard against her tender flesh. She thinks back to the days they spent on her ship towards White Harbor, and she wishes that Jon were still not afraid to touch her in the way that he had then, in the privacy of her cabin. She wishes that they could return to the way things were, so long ago.

But the way Jon stares at her now, as she turns to face him, pushing her curls over her shoulder, reminds her of those times. There’s a hunger to his face, his warm brown eyes darkening with lust as he stares at her like he wants to devour her here, in the middle of the field of lemon trees. A thrill runs through her body, and she takes a step towards him, watching his breath catch in his throat. She can practically hear his heart thundering, perfectly in sync with hers.

“What are you wearing?” Jon asks, and his voice is low, gruff, full of wanting. She smiles coyly at him, moving closer, the skirt rustling.

“A dress,” she tells him, but he shakes his head, pupils still blown wide.

“I don’t think there’s enough fabric to that for it to count as a dress,” he argues, and she cannot help but laugh. Despite the absence of a back, her dress is otherwise fairly modest. If this is his reaction to her gowns from her time in Essos, perhaps she will have to dig out the sheer, barely-there dresses Viserys gave her in Pentos to torture him further.

“If you think this is scandalous, you should see my other dresses from when I ruled Meereen,” she teases him, want coursing through her body, pooling heatedly in her belly.

Suddenly Jon is right before her, crowding into her space, hands framing her hips as his fingers curl possessively into the silky fabric. “I think I’d like to see that,” he whispers, a lilting smile on his lips, and Dany’s heart flutters.

“Would you?” she asks, and she tries to remain coy, to smirk at him prettily like he is nothing but a plaything, but she cannot help the hope that creeps into her voice, blossoming in her chest and making her heart swell. She will be patient with Jon, of course. She loves him more than she has ever loved anything. And if this unusual routine they have fallen into in the months since they came to Braavos is how she must live forever, she will be more than happy, because she has Jon, and she has a home, and she had barely dared to hope she would get _that_ much in life. But if there is a chance that they could somehow get back to where they were— Dany is scared to let herself dream of reaching that point, terrified that if she wants for too much she will grow unappreciative of everything she has right now. But the way Jon looks at her now, the way his thumbs trace along the bottom of her spine, makes her wonder if perhaps her dreams are not so far fetched.

“Aye,” he says, voice low and rough, before he leans into her, capturing her lips with his at the same moment she rises to meet him. His mouth is hungry against hers, their teeth clashing together as Jon coaxes her lips open with his tongue, his hands splayed across her bare back, heated and possessive. He lets out a strangled moan as she pushes her chest against his, his mouth plundering hers as if he is a starving man, and she is the best thing he has ever tasted. Her small hands clutch at his curls, sinking into the silky locks, tugging them free from the band he keeps them bound back with still. His teeth scrape against her bottom lip as he pulls away from her mouth, pressing kisses along her jaw, below her ear, his lips trailing down the column of her throat. Dany sighs, tipping her head back to give him better access, clutching his head to her chest, not allowing him to escape. Jon seems to want no such thing, his fingers running over her spine, teasing at the edges of her dress, dipping below the silky fabric. She shivers as his hand skims over the edge of her breast, pushing her body closer to his, wishing desperately they did not have all these foolish layers of clothing between them.

Jon gasps as her hands dart under his loose shirt, teasing up the planes of muscles in his chest, fingertips dancing over the scars she knows rest there. Her palm comes to rest over the one above his heart, the curved ridge of the scar that almost stole him from her before she even came to know him, came to love him so ardently. That seems to pull Jon back to reality, and his hands drift up to cup her face, his lips returning to hers, although his kiss is slower this time, long and languid, no longer desperate and hungry.

“If you keep dressing like this,” Jon whispers, lips still barely a breath away from hers, their foreheads pressed together, “I’m not going to be able to get anything done at all.”

“Maybe that is my plan, Jon Snow,” she teases, her eyes alight as his meet hers. His expression softens, something almost like sorrow and guilt creeping into his lovely eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dany,” he tells her, and for a moment her heart drops, desperately scared he is about to tell her that he cannot do this. That he will never be able to get back to where they were before, no matter how much time she gives him. “I’ve— you’ve been nothing but patient with me. You’ve given me more time than I deserve, probably. I’m sorry it’s taking me so long.”

“Shhh,” she tells him, pressing a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Jon. You have nothing to apologize for. Everything you’ve ever known turned out to be a lie told to you by the person you trusted most. I could never resent you for taking time to figure that out.”

“I’m getting there,” he tells her, and she smiles, hope blooming in her chest once again. “I am, truly. I promise.”

“I know,” she says, because she sees it, in the way he looks at her. In the way his touches linger longer, the way he pulls her tighter into his arms every night. It has been slow progress, but they are returning to how things were before the truth. And maybe one day, they truly will be as they were before, but better this time, stronger.

“I should get back to work,” he tells her, and she nods, rising on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. He grabs her wrist as she turns to leave him, pulling her back to him, pressing his lips to hers once more. “I love you,” he whispers, and she sees the sincerity in his eyes, the truth reflected there, making her heart hum contently.

They go about the rest of their day normally, although Dany does catch Jon staring at her dress a handful of times, smirking prettily at him every time he notices he’s been caught. The rest of the week passes mostly the same, though his is more open with his kisses now, pulling her to him without the hesitation he had before, covering her lips with his.

At the end of the week, Dany manages to cook fish perfectly without burning it to a complete crisp, and they celebrate with a fine arbor gold that she had been saving. They eat dinner in comfortable silence, and after the dishes are cleaned, Jon slips outside, walking to the edge of the bluff to watch the sun set over the sea.

He does this, sometimes— goes out and watches the sun sink below the horizon while he thinks. Dany keeps her brooding comments to herself, thinking of how telling Jon one of the few things she knows about her brother is that he was prone to brooding as well will probably not help anything. Generally, she leaves him be at times like this, so that he may think and process by himself. But something tonight calls her towards him, urges her to go outside and meet him. So she does.

The early summer grass tickles her bare feet, the cool evening breeze making the skirts of her dress ruffle. Jon doesn’t turn as she approaches him, but his hand takes hers the second she sits next to him, mere feet from the edge of the bluff. She doesn’t say anything, just remains silent, letting him think, running her thumb over the back of his hand.

“Do you know what he was like?” he finally says, voice quiet. Dany turns, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, of his nose, his profile sharp against the purples of the sky. “Your brother.”

Dany smiles softly, thinking of when she had asked Ser Barristan the same question. “I never knew him, but everyone who did tells me he was kind. Good, and gentle, not like my father, or Viserys. He hated fighting, even though he was good at it. Like you do,” she adds, leaning in closer to him, resting her head against his arm. Her eyes find the sea again, and she thinks back to a different time, a different side of the ocean before her. When she had said everyone enjoys what they’re good at on the shores of Dragonstone, Jon had rebutted her statement, and she remembers the way she had blinked at him, surprised at the admittance from such a hardened warrior, this stubborn Northern king. He had intrigued her endlessly in those days, as he still does even now.

“He used to sing,” she tells him. “Ser Barristan told me he would take his harp and go down into the city, and play music. People thought he was good. He’d give the money he earned to other musicians on the street.” Jon smiles slightly at that, turning to look at her, closing his eyes as he presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

“It still is strange to me,” Jon admits, eyes turning back towards the sea. “To think of anyone other than Ned Stark as my father. That’s what I always knew to be true.” He takes a breath, fingers playing with hers, his gaze cast down. “All my life I believed my mother hadn’t wanted me. Hadn’t cared for me, or was dead somewhere. And then I find out that not only did she want me, but she cared for me so much that she made my father, the most honorable man I ever knew, swear to secrecy to protect me from his best friend. Made him sacrifice his honor to save my life.”

He falls silent, and Dany pauses, wondering if she should speak or not. “I want to hate him for it,” Jon continues, looking down. “I want to hate him for lying to me, for keeping the truth from me my whole life. For never even telling me my true name.” He sighs, squeezing her hand. “But I know that he probably saved my life, keeping me in the dark.”

“He did,” Dany says, eyes sliding shut briefly. “I spent my entire childhood on the run from Robert’s assassins. We had to flee in the night when I was born, so that they couldn’t kill me in my crib. If he had known about you, it wouldn’t have mattered if Ned had tried to talk reason to him. You would have died, I am sure of it.”

“I grew up with him as my father,” Jon continues. “I loved him like my father. And I can’t change that, not now. I just…” he pauses again, Dany pressing her head to his shoulder, where it fits perfectly. “I wonder if he loved me like a son. Or if he always saw me as his sister’s child.”

“I never knew him,” Dany says, eyes turning towards Jon, wishing she could erase the pain in his eyes, smooth the wrinkles from between his brows. “But I am certain he loved you as a son. How could he not? You are a man that would make any father proud.”

“I hope he is proud of me, wherever he is,” Jon says. “That was all I ever wanted, when I was small. His approval. To know that everything he had to give up to care for me was worth it.” He sighs, looking out to the sea. “I wanted to be just like him when I grew up, as a child. I knew I could never be a lord, that I would always be a bastard, but I wanted to live as he did. To be brave, and noble, and always do what is right.”

“You have,” Dany assures him. “You are all of those things, and more. You are the best man I have ever known.”

He smiles slightly at that, squeezing her fingers, though his eyes remain on the horizon. “He had more honor than anyone I ever knew,” Jon says, and he turns his head, finally meeting her eyes. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried to live by his example. Always do the right thing, even if it wasn’t what I wanted.” He pauses again, looking down to their entwined hands. “I’m tired of fighting this battle in my head. Between what I _should_ do and what I _want_ to do. All my life I’ve done the right thing. For once, I want to do something for myself.”

Dany’s heart speeds up, eyes widening as she meets his. His expression is serious, no lightness to it, but she sees the depth of emotion in his eyes, warm dark pools pulling her in and trapping her there, and she is helpless to their pull.

“I’ve been trying to find myself, decide where I truly belong. And the answer has been here all along. It’s like I told Theon— I don’t have to choose between Stark or Targaryen. I’m both, or I’m neither; it doesn’t matter. All that matters to me is you,” he breathes, and Dany’s breath catches, heart thumping in her chest. Jon turns towards her, catching her face in his hand, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “And this life here, that we’re building. Together.” His words are so gentle, and Dany can feel the tears behind her eyes, the feeling of love blooming in her chest, like she is lighter than air.

“I love you, Dany,” Jon says. “And I just don’t _care_ anymore, whether it’s right or wrong. I only want to be with you. _Truly,_ like it was before. Nothing else.”

“I love you too,” she tells him, pressing her forehead into his, her heart thundering with what his words mean. His hand pushes a piece of her hair behind her ear, fingers tangling in the silver strand, before he ducks down, capturing her lips with his once again. She sighs into him, the warmth of his kiss, lets herself melt in his hands as they wrap around her, fingers stroking over her bare back. Without even thinking, she climbs into his lap, straddling his strong thighs, wanting nothing more than to be close to him, never able to separate herself from him completely.

Jon’s hands roam lower, teasing the edge of her dress, following up her legs until his hands dig into the soft flesh of her arse, pulling her closer to him. Her chest presses right against his, and she can feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of her dress, sighing in pleasure as he pulls her bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth scraping the tender flesh. Want flashes through her, hot as flames, and she can feel desire pooling in her belly, making her breath short, her eyelids flutter. She sinks her fingers into Jon’s hair, tugging at the silky curls, and he groans wantonly, teeth nipping at her skin as his mouth moves lower, peppering kisses along her collarbone, fingers tugging at the neckline of her dress. She can feel him growing hard below her, his desire for her only sparking her own, panting as he palms her breast through the thin fabric of her dress, her body arching into him involuntarily.

“I know I took too long, but I want you,” he says, voice husky, almost primal. “Do you still want me?”

She would laugh at that if her mind wasn’t currently rendered completely useless from his heady touches. “Always,” she manages to get out, humming with pleasure as his lips return to hers. “Take me inside, Jon Snow.”

He does as she commands, pulling her to her feet after she climbs off of him, his arms wrapping around her waist once again. Jon lifts her up as if she is light as air, his hands grabbing her arse possessively, holding her against him as she wraps her legs around his waist. Her skirts are completely rucked up, her hair probably a wild mess as it whips in the evening breeze, but she doesn’t care, sighing softly as Jon kisses her again, full of heat and passion. She’s not sure how his mind is somehow clear enough to walk them back towards their house, but he does, slamming the red door shut behind them, moaning into her mouth as she tugs at his hair, making him pause in the hallway. She jumps down onto her feet, pulling him after her into their bedroom, smiling to herself at the dark, lusty look in his eyes. Dany wastes no time after the bedroom door is shut, hands sneaking under his shirt, helping him tug it over his head. Jon has slept shirtless every night since the heat of summer has begun to set in, but this is the first time she can touch him, _truly_ touch him, like she has wanted to every night since he first climbed into her bed. She presses her lips to his chest, tracing the scar that rests above her heart softly, until she feels his hands tangle in her hair, pull her up to look at her. When Jon kisses her this time, it is soft, not so hungry, like he is savoring instead of devouring. She steps back when his hands skim down her sides, fumbling with the ties of her dress, breaking their kiss so she can help him untie the gauzy fabric, the material pooling as his calloused hands ease the straps from her shoulders, falling to a heap on the ground. Dany steps away from her discarded dress, completely bare before him, and the way his eyes skim hungrily over her body is both maddening and terrifying. It has been so long since he last saw her naked— she has new scars, new imperfections, her skin not as soft and smooth as it was in her days as a queen. But Jon smiles, blinking at her as he shakes his head, and all of her worries fade away, entranced by the adoration shining in his eyes.

“Gods, Dany, you’re so beautiful,” he says, and she can tell that he means it, drawing closer so he can run his fingers over her reverently. He dips his head to bring his lips to the place where her neck meets her shoulders, his tongue hot as it darts out to taste the soft skin there. She sighs wantonly, fingers sinking into his curls to hold him close to her, his mouth drifting lower, lower, fueling the fire in her belly.

“I’ve been such a fucking fool,” he murmurs into the valley between her breasts, sinking to his knees, hands caging her in against him. “Arguing with whatever bloody _foolish_ part of myself thought this was wrong.”

“It’s alright,” she sighs, unable to bite back a moan as his teeth scrape over her breast, his hand coming up to cup the other, the feeling of his fingers on her intoxicating. “You got there eventually.”

“Aye, I did,” he says, pressing another kiss to her skin. “And I don’t ever intend on giving this up again.” Dany opens her mouth to respond, but finds she has lost the ability to form words as Jon’s lips trail down her stomach, his hand sliding up between her legs, her knees going weak at his touch.

Somehow, in the months and months apart, she forgot _just_ how talented Jon Snow can be with his mouth.

He looks up at her after she has come undone against his very clever tongue, smirking slightly at the glassy look in her eyes, and if she were able to think straight, she would make some very snippish remark about checking he does not become too smug. But he deserves to be smug for this, she reasons, stars still flashing before her eyes. Gods, how did she _ever_ find the strength to leave her cabin on the journey to White Harbor, when he had gladly done _that_ to her every single night?

“All right,” Dany says, shaking her head. “The rest of your clothes need to come off. _Now.”_

Jon smiles at her softly, pressing a kiss to her mouth as he stands, and the taste of herself on his lips is maddening. “As my queen commands,” he says, before scooping her up in his arms, depositing her on the bed to a chorus of her giggles.

Happiness blooms in her chest, light and warm as sunshine, at the smile on his face, and she rolls over to her side to watch him undress, tugging at the ties on his breeches. She sighs contently as the offending fabric finally drops to the ground, Jon stepping over his discarded pants and towards the bed, her eyes sliding over him heatedly, taking in every line of his body, every plane of muscle that she has not gotten to see for far too long. He is already hard and ready for her, so she smiles coyly, rolling over on the bed so that he may join her. Her fingers skim up the hardened cords of muscles in his back the moment he climbs over her, his heated skin pressing against hers deliciously. Dany moans as his lips return to her chest, sucking marks into her skin that will definitely last long enough to be a nuisance to cover up in this warm weather. She couldn’t care less, though, reveling in the feeling of his body pressed to hers, her fingers skimming lower, lower, as she arches into him, pushing her hips up against his, Jon groaning into her skin at her movement.

“Fuck, Dany,” he breathes, and she smiles sweetly, hitching her leg up and gasping as he grazes her center, hot and wet and ready for him. Nothing feels better than Jon pressed up against her, her toes curling in anticipation of feeling him move inside her again, pulse racing as he leans down to kiss her again, messy and hot, teeth clashing together as his tongue demands entry. She opens up to him without a second thought, like it is the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is, with him. There is nothing she would not give to this wonderful man who she loves so dearly. Anything he asked of her, she would hand it over to him without a second thought.

“Jon,” she gasps, and she can take this delicious torture no longer; she needs to feel him this instant. Her hands scrabble down his chest, nails raking over his scarred skin, before she finally can grip his hard length in her hands, smirking at the way his hips buck involuntarily, swallowing his moaned curse with her own lips. “I need you,” she whispers into his mouth, and he nods, eyes dark as pitch and bursting with want. _“Now.”_

He has never truly been the type to deny her anything when she asks sweetly enough.

Jon pulls her against his chest once they are both spent, pressing a kiss to her forehead, hands skimming over her dewy skin lazily. “I am never going to leave this bed again,” he tells her, whispered against the crown of her head, and she laughs, snuggling closer into his chest.

“I could live with that arrangement,” Dany says, and he smiles too, lowering his forehead to hers, fingers pushing her mussed hair back from her face.

“Truly, though,” Jon says, the joking glint fading from his eyes, replaced with fond affection. His hand reaches to cup her face, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb. “I am not entirely convinced this is real, still. You. This. The life we have here together. It still seems too good to be true. Like a dream, or something.”

“Mmm,” Dany hums, pressing a kiss to the scar above his heart. “It does. The best type of dream possible. More wonderful than I ever let myself dare hope for.” She smiles again, closing her eyes as she draws her toes up his calf, tangling their legs together. “But if this is a dream, I’d rather never wake from it.”

“Aye,” Jon murmurs, arms tightening around her. “Me as well.”

***

Dany wakes later in the morning than usual, exhausted and aching from the night’s _many_ rounds of activities, but she has never felt happier, curled into Jon’s arms contently. She inhales, breathing in the scent of him, familiar and warm and comforting. His face looks so peaceful in his sleep, completely free of tension, all of his worries forgotten. She smiles smally to herself, reaching up to trace his face with her fingertips, thumb brushing over his scruffy jawline, around his nose, her index finger tracing lightly across his brow. When they had sailed to White Harbor she had studied him in his sleep as well, marvelling at how his ever-present scowl disappeared, the creases of worry between his brow slipping away in the respite of her cabin. But now, his face in sleep reflects his face in life more accurately. He smiles more, laughs with her, his brow no longer constantly furrowed with worry. She barely sees him truly brooding. It makes her heart happy to think that this life they have together has had that effect on him, has lifted years of responsibility and duty and worry from his shoulders.

She sees him begin to wake beneath her gentle touches, his eyes squeezing closed tightly before opening blurrily, blinking at her. She smiles softly as the sleep clears from his beautiful eyes, those warm brown irises filling with love as he takes her in, thoroughly rumpled.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs to her, leaning over to press a kiss to her nose. “How did you sleep?”

She laughs, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Barely at all. Every time I thought for sure I had worn you out, you proved me wrong yet again.”

He chuckles lowly, fingers running up and down her spine. “Are you complaining?”

“Never,” she whispers, grinning at him wickedly. He smiles, drawing her face to his, kissing her on the lips this time, before sitting up, untangling their legs and swinging his over the side of the bed. “Jon,” she whines as he stands, the bed instantly feeling cold without his presence next to her. “Where are you going?”

“As much as I’d like to spend all day in that bed ravishing you,” he says, cocking an eyebrow at her, and she leans back, laughing, “we do have other things we need to do.”

“Mmm,” Dany hums, watching his retreating back as he walks towards the wardrobe on the other side of the room. She lets her eyes trace down his naked form languorously, recommitting every detail to memory, from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips. She wets her lips as her eyes roam lower, admiring the taut muscle of his arse, reveling in the fact that he is _all hers._ Jon Snow may just have the loveliest arse in the history of mankind, she thinks.

“Can’t other things wait?” she pouts, and he turns to face her, eyes roaming over her bare body hungrily. She stretches out like a cat, grinning victoriously as she watches his throat bob, eyes already dark with desire again. Before she can get another word out, he is at the foot of the bed, sliding up her body until he can capture her lips hungrily with his own.

“Maybe just a little longer,” he agrees, a smirk playing at his lips, and she laughs triumphantly, losing herself to the feeling of his body pressed up against hers once again.

It’s truly a miracle they get _anything_ done in the following weeks, as Dany finds it more and more difficult to leave their bed come morning, content to spend all her time snuggled into Jon’s warmth, the rest of the world be damned. The first crop of lemons ripen and are picked, and Dany makes them freshly squeezed lemonade, sweet and refreshing after long days of the summer heat. She tries her best to make lemon cakes as well, one afternoon while Jon tends to the animals in the pasture, and they do not taste exactly as she remembers, but they are still undeniable good. She and Jon eat them after supper, and he gives her the sweetest smile of approval, before leaning over to brush sugar from the corner of her mouth.

“These are Sansa’s favorites,” Jon tells her. “Any time we happened upon lemons in Winterfell, she would commandeer them all, make Old Nan make batches of lemon cakes just for her.”

Dany laughs, finishing off another one. “If we ever go back to visit Westeros, we will have to bring her some.”

“Aye,” he agrees, but something in his expression changes, and he turns in his chair to face her, taking her hand in his. “Dany,” he starts, and her brows raise at the sudden shift in his tone. The breeze from the bluffs outside tickles her neck, the gauzy curtains of their living room swishing lazily as the sky turns a million shades of pinks and purples and blues.

“What is it?” she murmurs, brow scrunching in concern. Jon shakes his head, looking at their entwined fingers, then back up at her. The love in his eyes is overwhelming, and she blinks, heart thumping. Sometimes still she is taken aback by how much Jon cares for her, how much she cares for him in return.

“I know we’ve done this all backwards,” he says, his other hand reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “But I never thought I would be as happy as I am now. I never thought I would have everything you’ve given to me. I love our home, our life here. I love _you.”_

“I love you too,” she tells him, easy as breathing. He smiles at her slightly, eyes flooded with emotion, before he speaks again.

“Marry me,” he breathes, and her heart skips a beat. “I don’t know what it would change, truly. But I know that I love you. And I want you to be mine, in every way imaginable.”

“I am yours,” she promises, leaning into him, into the warmth that floods her body from his simple touch. “For the rest of my days, I am yours. As you are mine.”

“Aye,” he promises, his nose bumping hers. “Now and always.” He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, before pulling away, gazing into her eyes with hope. “Does that mean you will?”

Dany laughs, nodding. “Yes,” she says, and Jon smiles too, full and wide, brighter than soft sunlight, or the moonbeams that shine off the ocean at night. He cups her face in his hands, staring at her like she is the most precious thing in the world. “I will marry you, Jon Snow.”

They are married in their field of lemon trees the next week. The sky is endless blue, not a cloud to be seen, just a gentle breeze from the sea moving lazily through the pasture. Dany digs out an old dress from Meereen for the occasion— most of her dresses are far too fancy for the lives they lead now, but today is an exception, and she dons one of her white gowns and braids her hair ornately, moonglow curls falling down her back. The dress she had picked is light and flowy, gathered material crossing over her chest and exposing her stomach above the waistband, the drapes flowing down over her back like a cloak, almost. There are no weirwood trees in Braavos, but at least her dress somewhat resembles one tradition of a northern ceremony. Jon’s eyes widen almost comically when he sees her in the dress, his pulse jumping in his throat, leaning over to whisper in her ear before they walk into the grove of lemon trees. “Are you trying to send me to an early grave?” he practically growls, and Dany giggles, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“No,” she whispers back. “Just giving you a hint at what’s to come later.” Jon’s eyes darken at the mention of their wedding night, and she has to keep her knees from buckling as he takes her in like he is a wolf and she is his dinner, expression dark and lusty and full of wanting.

“We have a guest,” she reminds him, and Jon swallows, glancing over to the septon from the city waiting for them, schooling his expression into one much more appropriate. Once they reach him, the septon leads them through the words as they bind their hands together with ribbons, both of them unable to contain their smiles, the happiness shining in their eyes.

“I am his, and he is mine,” Dany promises, eyes never wavering from Jon’s, the way he smiles at her as warm as the summer sunshine that streams into the orchard. “From this day, until the end of my days.” Her eyes prick with tears as he leans in to kiss her, soft and sweet and gentle, full of promise for the future.

“You are stuck with me now, Jon Snow,” she whispers to him, unable to keep a joyous laugh from falling from her lips.

“Good,” Jon responds, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I can think of no other way I would want to spend the rest of my days.”

***

Time passes as the months grow hotter, true summer upon them now. There are so many lemons that Dany and Jon practically run out of things to do with them, though Dany gets _considerably_ better at making lemon cakes. Jon comes home one day to find her on the beach, resting against Drogon’s scaly hide as he devours his dinner contently. Jon offers him a pat on the snout, avoiding the mangled animal before the dragon’s large head as he moves to sit next to Dany, eyes sliding closed immediately, head leaning back against Drogon’s hide as the exhaustion from the work day seeps from his bones.

“I talked to my friend from the docks about those cows,” Jon tells her. “He says he has two he would sell us if we wanted them. They should be old enough in a month or two to produce milk.”

“Mmm,” Dany hums, nodding her head before she leans it against Jon’s shoulder. “They’ll keep the grass in check better than the goats can. And we could make our own butter, instead of having to buy it. And have beef stew in the winter.”

“I don’t think winter is real here,” Jon mumbles. “It’s so bloody hot all the time.” She laughs, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she says, and she hopes he can tell how sincere she is. “Do you not like it here?”

“No, of course not,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “Everything’s too hot for me, after living at the Wall for so long. And besides,” he says, turning to meet her eyes, a lopsided smile gracing his lips. “You are most definitely worth it.”

“Good,” she whispers, smiling back at him, pecking him on the lips quickly. Drogon grumbles, his dinner finished, and Dany laughs as he rests his head next to her, running fingers over the scales on his great snout, like she used to when he was small.

“Did you know,” she asks lightly, “we have been here over a year now?”

Jon hums, his brows raising. “Really?” She nods at his question, lacing their fingers together.

“Sometimes it feels like yesterday that we arrived. Other times it feels like we’ve been here forever. Time seems to lose its significance, when every day is not filled with war and death.” Dany laughs. “And now look at us, getting cows and growing lemons. We’re turning into farmers, practically.”

“It’s a far cry from the life of a queen,” he says, ducking his head, but Dany can hear what he has left unsaid. She does not miss her previous life, though. The entire time she was in pursuit of the throne, what she really wanted was a place to belong. And now that she has that, her desire to rule has been long forgotten.

“Perhaps,” she tells him. “But better, too.” He looks up, meeting her eyes, and she smiles warmly at him, her hand cupping his cheek, his beard rough against her palm.

“This came from Winterfell today,” she tells him, dropping her hand and offering him a raven scroll. “From Sansa, and Arya. They wanted to know how we are.”

Jon’s eyes skim the parchment, absorbing his sister’s neat handwriting. “I was thinking,” Dany starts, and he must be able to catch the hesitancy in her voice, because he lowers the parchment, meeting her eyes again. “We should go visit them. In Winterfell. I know we are happy here, together, but they are still your family.”

Jon doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyes falling down to the sand. “I would like to see Arya again,” he admits. “And Bran, and Sansa. We spent so much time separated, not even knowing if the others were alive, before the great war.” He looks up, meeting Dany’s eyes. “It’s a far journey to Westeros, though. And not one I’m sure you’d truly like to make.”

“It’s nowhere near as long on Drogon,” she reasons, taking his hand again, lacing her fingers with his. “And it’s your family, Jon. Of course I want to go.” She leans in, presses a kiss to his jaw. “You came here because of me. And this is our home now, of course. But that does not mean you have to forget about your old home. Or the family you still have there either.”

“How long would we be gone?” Jon asks, and she can see in his eyes, he is truly considering her proposition now.

“For however long as you like,” she tells him. “A few weeks, maybe. Nothing too long.”

He remains silent, mulling over her words. “Alright,” he says, meeting her eyes again. “I would like to see them, I think. I’ll write to Sansa.” Dany smiles, resting her head on his shoulder again, and when he squeezes her hand, seeking comfort, she returns the pressure immediately.

They leave for their visit a few weeks later, Drogon screeching as he leaps into the sky, mist from the water spraying in their faces as he skims over the breaking waves at the seashore. Dany laughs, closing her eyes and losing herself to the sensation, the wind whipping in her hair, Jon’s arms tight around her. There is nothing quite as liberating as flying through open air, she thinks, as Drogon dives, causing Jon to yelp in surprise. She cannot help but laugh at her son’s playfulness as her husband’s arms tighten around her, his muttered curses clear as day to her, even with the whistling of the wind.

The North looks different when they finally reach it, the endless fields of white gone, replaced instead with the fresh greens of spring. The heat of summer has not yet reached this far, the wind cool, and Dany shivers when they step off Drogon, right outside the keep. Jon, however, basks in the cooler weather, his smile wide as he surveys his shivering wife, immediately wrapping his strong arms around her. “It seems the gods have gotten their revenge against me for always teasing you about the heat,” she grumbles, and Jon smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Don’t worry, my queen,” he murmurs, lacing their fingers together, Dany’s heart thumping at the title she no longer carries, but which he still calls her by affectionately. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Dany cannot help but notice how different this arrival at Winterfell is from her last one. There are no lords and ladies waiting in the courtyard this time, no fanfare, no crowds of people watching her armies march through the villages. Instead, they are greeted by Jon’s siblings, Gendry, Ser Brienne, Podrick, and Ser Jaime behind them. Jon’s friend Sam and his wife are there with them as well, Gilly’s arms around a small babe, a little boy lurking behind his father’s legs. The group of people mingle together, all cold formality gone, just awaiting their arrival. Jon smiles at the sight of all of them, and Arya rushes forward immediately, throwing her arms around her brother. Jon laughs, catching her and lifting her clean off the ground, pressing a kiss to his sister’s temple.

“You were gone too long,” Arya accuses him as he places her back on her feet, her brows furrowing, but Dany can see the lilt to her smile, the glint of teasing in her eyes, so similar to Jon’s. Arya turns to her too, and Dany is surprised when the younger girl pulls her into a hug as well.

“We live across the Narrow Sea, Arya,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. Arya pulls away from Dany, smiling at her before fixing her brother with a withering glare.

“You have a _dragon,_ Jon. Your excuses are bullshit, and you know it.”

“We’ve been a little busy,” Dany says, attempting to save her husband from the withering glares of his siblings.

“Yes, I hear congratulations are in order,” Sansa says, hugging her brother tightly. “Although I am not sure we can forgive you for getting married and not telling any of us until _afterwards.”_

“I invited you to my wedding,” Arya accuses, smirking. “And yet you couldn’t even do the same for us.”

“It was sort of a spur of the moment decision,” Jon defends, his expression only slightly panicked. Dany laughs softly, creeping closer to him, twining her fingers with his. “And again. We live in Braavos. That’s not a short journey from here.”

“We’re teasing, Jon,” Sansa assures him, her smile warm. Her eyes flick to Dany, seizing up the other woman, and Dany’s heart hums when she sees the warmth does not disappear from Sansa’s gaze when it lands upon her.

Jon kneels to give Bran a hug too, his smile surprisingly warm as he greets his elder brother. “You look well,” Jon tells him, a hand ruffling his hair affectionately. Bran’s expression is kind, full of light, unlike the first time Dany had met him. Now, with the wars over and the Night King gone, he looks more like the boy Jon has described from his childhood than the three-eyed-raven Dany had come to know in her brief time here.

Jon turns to his best friend, clapping Sam on the back in a bracing hug, giving Gilly a hug as well. “She’s beautiful,” he tells them of the babe cradled in her mother’s arms, one of his hands raising to stroke her tiny cheek. “And I’m glad for her, that she didn’t have to be named after me.” Sam and Gilly laugh at that, but Dany’s heart squeezes, watching him gaze in wonder at his friends’ new child. She will never be able to give him that, she knows. And as happy as they are in their life, as much as she cherishes every single day she spends with Jon in their little cottage, that is the one dream she has that she knows will never come true. A little babe with Jon’s unruly curls and her eyes, tiny hands grasping her husband’s fingers as their child toddles down the sandy shores of the beach below the bluffs.

Jon seems oblivious to her longings, eyes catch on another figure in the crowd. “Davos?” he asks with wonder, laughing as the older man steps forward, seizing Jon for a hug. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in King’s Landing, with your family.”

“Storm’s End, now, actually,” he says, nodding. “We left the city after you did. I came north with these two when we heard you were coming,” he explains, jerking his head towards Arya and Gendry. Davos turns to Dany, hugging her fiercely as well, and she feels a rush of affection for the old man, Jon’s loyal advisor who never once doubted her either.

“Congratulations, to both of you,” he tells them, with a gruff smile. “You both seem very happy.”

“We are,” Dany assures him, meeting Jon’s eyes, heart fluttering at the small smile that plays at his lips.

“There’s someone else waiting for you,” Sansa says, and Jon turns to look at her again, confusion written on his face at the look on his sister’s face. Dany’s eye catches suddenly on a blur of white in the corner of the courtyard, and before she can fully process what is happening, her husband is being tackled to the ground by an enormous, snowy beast.

 _“Ghost?”_ Jon laughs, struggling to sit up with what Dany realizes now is a full-grown direwolf upon him. “What are you doing here, boy?”

“He showed up here a few months after Tormund left with the wildlings,” Sansa explains. “And yes, Tormund is fine. Ghost just refused to stay with them.”

Jon kneels before his great beast, burying his face in the wolf’s white fur. “I never should have left you behind,” Jon whispers, just to him, but Dany hears him anyways, her heart squeezing as she watches the two of them. It reminds her of her bond with Drogon, watching Jon and his wolf’s reunion. Ghost licks at Jon’s cheek roughly, and Jon laughs, before the wolf turns from him, his deep red eyes fixing on Dany.

She had never been properly introduced to Jon’s wolf during the short time she had been in Winterfell— there had been so many other things that had taken precedent, and then they found out the truth, and the dead were headed for them. Ghost takes slow steps towards her now, his large paws silent on the stones of the courtyard.

“Gentle, boy,” Jon warns, stepping in pace with his wolf as he approaches her. Dany does not shrink back, though, entranced by this beautiful creature. Ghost steps towards her, his head almost level with her shoulders, and hesitantly, she holds out a hand, letting him decide what move to make next. The wolf seems to consider her, frozen in place, before he takes another step towards her, shoving his great head into her hand, Dany laughing as she scratches behind his ear.

“He’s marvelous,” she tells Jon, her husband coming up behind her, an arm looping around her waist. Ghost whines when Dany pulls her hand away, Jon rolling his eyes as he sinks his hand into the wolf’s silky fur once again.

“He’s bloody needy, is what he is,” Jon grumbles, but she can see he does not mean it, affection shining in his eyes as his wolf rubs his head against his chest. “Gods, I’ve missed him.”

“Come inside,” Sansa finally says, appearing on the other side of Ghost, and offering Dany her arm. Dany takes it, surprised by the other woman’s warmness towards her, and she hopes, sincerely, that she and Jon’s sister may yet become friends. “You must be exhausted. We have a meal cooked for you in the hall.”

They all eat together, crowded at the main table in the hall, a fire roaring behind them in the hearth to fight off the mild chill of spring. Arya tells them of Storm’s End, though she confesses that they split their time between there and Winterfell. “Sansa’s been helping me with the whole ‘lord’ thing,” Gendry confesses bashfully. “I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“You are serving your people well,” Sansa assures him. “And that is what matters.”

“Truly,” Dany agrees. “The people don’t need the perfect lord to help rule them. They need someone who genuinely cares. Someone who will stand up for them and defend them, no matter what.”

“That’s what I’m hoping to do,” Gendry says. “That’s the only reason I wanted to be a lord at all. To help people.” His eyes dart to Arya next to him, and she smiles at her husband, full of warmth. “That’s what we both want for the kingdoms.”

They continue eating, laughing and catching up on everything that has happened in the past year. Jon’s siblings howl with laughter when they learn he has become a _farmer,_ practically, and Arya demands to know if he even remembers how to swing a sword anymore. “When I best you later in the training yard, you’ll have your answer,” he responds, his smile challenging, and Arya shakes her head at him, eyes gleaming.

“You can try, brother,” she retorts.

“I would be careful with her, Jon,” Brienne adds. “She is the fiercest swordfighter I have ever met.”

“That’s why I’m in charge of the Baratheon army now,” she says, pride shining in her eyes. “Gendry can handle the politics. I handle the fighting.”

“I fear any army that ever dares challenge Westeros now,” Davos says, and Jon smiles at his old advisor,  nodding in agreement.

“I’m glad you’re all well,” Jon tells his siblings, his eyes fond as they jump from Sansa to Arya to Bran. “And I’m glad you’re all together, still.”

“It’s like Father used to say,” Bran says, his voice serene, all-knowing. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” Dany feels her heart squeeze at those words, the pang of guilt that runs through her, because that is what she has done to Jon. Pulled him away from his family, isolated him from his pack. It’s clear to her, seeing him with his siblings, how much he belongs with them. She turns to look at her husband, and she can see the same realization dawn over him, the same air of sadness fill his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Jon,” Sansa says, her words soft, yet comforting. “Regardless of where you are, this will still be your home as well. You always have a place with us here. Just like Arya.” She pauses, meeting Dany’s eye briefly, before looking back to her brother. “And besides, you’re not alone. You’re not just a wolf. You’re a dragon too.”

Jon smiles at that, his eyes casting down to meet Dany’s, and when he squeezes her hand under table, she squeezes it back immediately, reassuring both him and herself. Sansa is right, they will never be alone. They have each other, for now and always.

Their things are brought in after their feast is finished, everyone beginning to retire to their rooms. Dany spots one of the chests with her things, though, and immediately remembers the peace offering she had packed, just in case Sansa had not been feeling as amicable towards her as she hoped.

“Lady Sansa,” Dany says, and the other woman turns, walking back towards her and her brother. “We brought you a gift,” she offers, and Sansa’s brow furrows. “As a thank you, for welcoming us back here so warmly.” Jon passes the heavy crate to his sister, helping her set it on the table so she may open it. Sansa’s confusion immediately fades into joy as she opens the crate, laughing as she plucks out one of the dozens of lemons inside.

“For lemon cakes,” Jon explains. “We have a dozen of the trees in our pasture.”

“My favorite,” Sansa says, smile still joyous. “Thank you, truly.” She puts the fruit back, closing the chest, her eyes flitting to Dany. “I have a present for you as well.” She turns towards one of her servants who has just entered the hall, something large wrapped in cloth in her arms.

“I had started it before you sent word that you were already married,” she says, handing Dany the wrapped bundle. “I figured you would need it one day. I just wish I had finished it in time.”

Dany gently places the bundle on the table, peeling back the cloth wrapping to reveal a beautiful, ornately decorated cloak. It is made of fine wool, a dark, stormy gray, just like the colors of the Stark sigil, but trimmed in black and red, beautifully embroidered in her house colors in a way that Dany can tell took a considerable amount of time. But it is the emblem in the middle of the cloak that makes her breath catch— the dragon of her house’s sigil entwined with the direwolf of the Starks, both beautifully stitched animals encircled in an ornate ring of embroidery. “It’s a wedding cloak,” Jon tells her, but she nods, recognizing the similar design from Arya’s wedding.

“It’s beautiful, Sansa,” Dany breathes, looking up to meet her goodsister’s eyes. “I don’t even know how to properly thank you. This must have taken you so long to make.”

“It took a while to get the sigil right,” Sansa admits. “I wasn’t sure what to do, for a while. But Bran suggested adding both, together. Since Jon is both a dragon, and a wolf.”

“It’s perfect,” Dany says, blinking back the tears in her eyes. She had never, in a million years, expected such a kind gesture from Sansa. Maybe all hope for a friendship between them is not lost, she muses. “I only wish I had been able to use it.”

“I think we were secretly all hoping you would return to Winterfell, even just for a visit, to be married,” Sansa says, looking at her brother, who ducks his head, embarrassed. “Since your family is here.”

Jon sighs, looking up at Sansa. “I know. And we should have, probably. I just…” he shakes his head, looking away from his sister and his wife again. “This country held so much pain, for so long. We lost so many here. And being in Braavos, it felt like a fresh start. It helped me forget everything we suffered.” Dany’s heart thrums, understanding Jon’s words completely. She had no desire to ever return to this country again, wanting to remain in their little cottage in Braavos and create new memories to help ease the pain of the old ones. But family is important, she knows. And Jon will always have ties to Winterfell, regardless of how much time has passed.

“I’m glad, though, that Dany convinced me to come back,” he says, meeting her eyes, smiling slightly. “Even with all the painful memories from this place, I never want to forget my family.”

“You know,” Dany says, fingering the cloak in her arms, eyes catching on the careful stitches, the delicate beading. “We are already married. But we could have another ceremony, here, in the Godswood.” She looks up at Jon, his eyebrows raising. “There was no one else there when we were married the first time. It would be nice to swear our vows again, in front of the Old Gods, with all of your family as well.”

“Do you really want that, Dany?” he asks gently, his hand falling to her waist, pulling her into his side slightly. She nods, mind made up.

“Yes, I would. Would that be alright?” she asks, turning to Sansa. The other woman just smiles, nodding her head.

“Of course. If you want to, that is. We would love that.”

Jon hugs her tightly that night when they climb into bed in his old chambers, burying his head in her shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing her cheek. She smiles against his lips, turning in his arms so she can run her fingers through his hair. “I am not sure what I did to deserve someone as wonderful as you.” She smiles softly, kissing his lips.

“I often think the same of you,” she tells him, and he smiles, eyes sliding shut as they both drift off to sleep.

They spend the next few weeks in peace with Jon’s family, eating and laughing and catching up. Jon and Dany fly Drogon back to the waterfall from so long ago, the two of them spending an afternoon tangled together in the fields there no longer buried under snow. Sansa has the cook make lemon cakes with her gift, and Dany sighs contently as they eat them, for they taste much better than the ones she makes. Arya does, in fact, best Jon in the training yard, though it is indeed a close match. Dany watches the two of them fight intently, Jon’s shirt soaked through with sweat as he swings Longclaw with practiced ease, heat pooling in her belly at the predatory glint in his eyes as he and his sister spar. Sometimes she forgets the true warrior he is, when it is just the two of them with their small cottage and their gardens and animals. The second he returns to their chambers after his fight, she presses him up against the wall, and he swallows her moans with his mouth, hungry against hers. “I’m not complaining,” Jon says, teeth catching on her skin as he kisses his way down her collarbone. “But what brought this on?”

“I forgot how _infuriatingly_ attractive it is when you swing a sword around like that,” she retorts, pulling at his sweat-soaked shirt until it is no longer on his body. Jon smiles wickedly, hands tearing at the ties on her dress, helping her wriggle out of the cursed garment before he scoops her up, depositing her on his bed, shucking off his trousers and boots before joining her.

“Should I start sparring in the field behind the house?” he asks, suckling at her neck, working his way down her skin, hands already roaming further south.

“Gods, _yes,”_ she breathes, though whether it is in response to his question or the feeling of his lips against her breast, his fingers dipping inside her, she is not entirely sure.

Two nights before they are set to leave, Sansa helps Dany into a simple, yet elegant silver dress she had put together quickly, braiding her hair back over the crown of her head and letting the rest of the moonbeam curls fall down her back. “Thank you,” Dany says again to the other woman before she leaves, and Sansa just smiles, bowing her head.

The godswood is lit with candlelight, lanterns glowing along the short aisle to the heart tree that is lined with their family and friends. Sansa stands by the tree to officiate, her brother next to her, looking dashing in his traditional northern furs that Dany has not seen since the end of the war. Arya and Bran stand right at the front of the small crowd, Sam and Gilly and their two children next to them, Brienne, Jaime, Podrick, and Davos on the other side. Even Ghost is here, sitting dutifully next to the Starks. While their first marriage was perfect, with the cloudless blue sky and the lemon blooms around them, Dany cannot help but be grateful to do this again, this time surrounded by the people that they love. Arya appears by her side at the end of the aisle, offering an arm to walk her to her husband, and she smiles gratefully, beyond blessed to have gained the friendship of both the Stark girls.

Jon’s eyes shine with love when she reaches him, the beautiful cloak that Sansa had made draped over his arm, ready to be wrapped around her. She can hear Sansa speaking, can vaguely register the practiced words she responds to her questions, but she is completely caught up in Jon again, entranced by his eyes, shining in the moonlight flooding the godswood.

“Do you take this man?” Sansa asks her, and Dany smiles, because she will swear this forever, in front of any gods imaginable, for the rest of her days.

“I take this man,” she breathes, smiling at her husband, and he smiles back, draping the cloak over her shoulders. Its heavy weight is comforting and warm, and she grins as Jon’s fingers linger at the clasp, securing her in his family forevermore.

They have a feast afterwards, partly for the wedding and partly because Jon and Dany must return to Braavos soon, but the food is delicious, the wine flowing all through the night. The time not spent laughing with their friends and family at the main table she spends on the dance floor, wrapped up in Jon’s arms, the two of them waltzing aimlessly around the floor in slow circles. “This is perfect,” he whispers into her ear, and she smiles, rising on her toes to kiss his lips again.

“Is it time for the bedding ceremony?” Arya jokes as the night comes to a close, Jon’s younger sister perched on Gendry’s lap with a pint of ale in her hand. Jon laughs, shaking his head, before he scoops Dany up in his arms, eliciting a surprised squeal from her.

“There will be no need for that,” he says, grinning, and Dany laughs too, resting her head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around her tighter. “Good night, everyone.” Jon walks out of the hall to a chorus of cheers from their family and friends, Dany laughing into his shoulder as his arms tighten, holding her to his chest.

“You know we’ve already had our wedding night, right?” she giggles into his ear as he reaches their chambers. He snorts, shaking his head as he puts her back on her feet.

“As if that’s going to stop us,” he whispers, his eyes glinting with want, and she laughs, melting into his hungry kiss, savoring the taste of ale on his lips as he helps her out of her wedding dress.

There are tearful goodbyes the day they leave, everyone gathering in the courtyard again to see them off. Ghost is to come with them, though, after Sansa tells Jon she has not seen him so happy in the last year as he was as soon as they were reunited. Dany gives all three Starks hugs goodbye, touched by the warmth with which they bid her farewell. The acceptance and friendship she had hoped for the first time she had come to Winterfell, in what seems like a different lifetime, is nows truly hers, and she knows that she will miss Jon’s siblings dearly.

Still, there is a certain relief that floods her once they reach Braavos again, Drogon landing in the middle of their pasture, startling the chickens. Ghost lopes through the grass, sniffing at the lemon trees, cocking his head in confusion at Jon, who laughs at his wolf. “A little different from the North, isn’t it, boy?” he asks. Dany smiles too, biting back a yawn; it has been a long few days of travelling, and she is exhausted.

“I think I might lay down,” she tells Jon, blinking back the sudden rush of drowsiness that has hit her. “Do you mind taking in the trunks?”

“Of course not,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be inside in a moment.”

She changes into a sleep shift, slipping into their bed after pulling the curtains closed to dim the brilliant colors of the sunset that is just beginning. Sleep comes easily, her mind going blank the moment her head hits her pillow. She awakens a few hours later, the sky now an inky black, the bed still empty next to her.

Dany sits up, pushing her hair from her eyes groggily, the remnants of sleep not quite faded yet. She startles when she notices something lurking in her doorway, red eyes gleaming at her through the darkness. Relaxing, she puts her hand out, beckoning to Ghost, who pads silently to the bedside, nudging his great snout against her hand, before nuzzling his head into her lap, nose bumping against her stomach.

“Hello,” she whispers to him, her fingers sinking into his snowy fur. She is still enraptured by him, as rare and mystical as her dragons. He lifts his head, eyeing her slowly, before he licks up her cheek roughly, and her peal of laughter echoes down the hall, attracting her husband.

“Ghost, what are you doing?” Jon says, appearing in the doorway, and the wolf turns to look at him, making Dany laugh even more at the accusatory tilt of the animal’s head.

“He’s keeping me company,” she assures Jon, giving Ghost one last pat before she moves to stand. But something in her stomach swoops at the sudden movement, her vision growing blurry, and she stumbles backwards, sitting down once again. Jon is in front of her in an instant, gently shoving Ghost away so he can take her hands, brush her hair back from her face.

“Dany, are you okay?” he asks, voice urgent. She nods, her dizzy spell over, but something still seems unsettled in her stomach, nausea suddenly creeping in.

“I’m alright,” she says, trying to stand again, this time leaning on Jon’s hands for support. As soon as she is upright, though, her stomach flops, and she rushes to the basin in the corner of the room, retching into it, emptying the contents of her stomach into the smooth porcelain bowl.

“Dany,” Jon says, hand stroking up her back, and she breathes, trying to catch her breath, looking over at him. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she tells him truthfully. “I just felt sick, suddenly. It might have been the food at Winterfell, finally catching up to me. It’s richer than I am used to.”

“Okay,” Jon says, but he does not look convinced, brow furrowed with concern. “Why don’t you lie back down? I’ll get you some water.”

She lets him lead her back to the bed, watching him fret as he pulls the pillows to rest behind her back, tugging the bedclothes up to cover her legs. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, kissing her forehead sweetly. She leans back, closing her eyes, trying to will her stomach to cooperate, stop churning violently.

“Thank you,” she says when Jon returns with a cup, taking slow, careful sips. He perches on the end of the bed, hand running up and down her legs comfortingly, Ghost curled up at the side of the bed as well. Her two Northern protectors, it seems, and her heart fills at the sight of both of them.

“It was probably just a long day of travel,” she assures him, though flying has never made her so ill before. “I think I’ll go back to bed. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.” Jon nods, taking the cup from her, setting it on the table.

“Alright,” he concedes, stepping away from the bed so he may change as well, climbing under the sheets with her afterwards. He drops a kiss on her forehead, stroking her hair back and away from her face, still slightly pallid. “Good night, love. Feel better.”

She does not.

The nausea is somehow worse in the morning, and she wakes before Jon even does, nearly tripping over Ghost in her mission to reach the basin in the corner again. Jon pulls her loose hair over her shoulder as she finishes vomiting, leaning back into his arms afterwards, shaky and weak. His eyes are still bleary with sleep, curls tangled and mussed, but he holds her anyways, whispering words of comfort as she falls back into his strong arms. Jon helps her back in to bed, brings her water and dry biscuits, and sits by her side as she finishes them both off.

They do help settle her stomach some, and a few hours later she manages to rise and dress with no assistance, though Jon insists on hovering like a nervous mother hen. Her stomach is still unsettled, but not nearly as badly as it had been when she first awoke, so Jon lets her accompany him into the pasture, going about their normal daily chores.

Her condition does not improve over the next week, every morning starting with her retching violently into the basin that has since been moved to her bedside. Jon grows increasingly more frantic, neither of them sure what could be causing her malady— they are eating the same food, he reasons, so that can be ruled out. “Could you have caught something in Winterfell?” he asks, braiding her hair clumsily over her shoulder one morning, Dany’s body still shaking from her most recent bout of vomiting.

“I don’t think so, but I guess it’s possible,” she responds. “I’m not sure what’s wrong, truly. Other than the nausea, I feel alright, I suppose, but it’s not getting any better.”

“Alright,” Jon says, voice short, like he has come to a decision. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the clammy skin of her cheek, and she turns to face him, her stomach twinging at the movement. “Enough of this nonsense. This is scaring me, whatever it is. I’m going to go into the city, and fetch a maester.”

“It’s a long ride to the city,” she says, knowing it will take almost half a day for him to reach the main city of Braavos on their horse. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Jon.”

“I’m not risking it, Dany,” he says, eyes wide, and she is startled by the fear she sees there. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’re my whole world, alright? And I hate leaving you here alone, but I won’t ignore this sickness, hoping it goes away, just to lose you to something we could have cured. Okay?”

She nods slowly, because she knows in her heart, if the roles were reversed, she would do the same for him. “I’ll leave before daybreak tomorrow,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And Ghost will stay here, with you. I should be able to make it back after midday.”

He is true to his word, leaving practically before the sun rises in the morning, kissing her crown briefly before he leaves. Dany makes it through the day, her stomach still churning, but feeling fairly normal otherwise. She sits on the bluff after the day’s chores are done, letting the sea breeze and summer sunshine wash over her. Drogon swoops down from the sky to rest with her, his head nuzzling next to her outstretched legs, and Dany laughs at the apprehensive look her son gives Jon’s direwolf, Ghost growling protectively as he rests his head in her lap. “Boys,” she says, unable to keep the laughter from spilling out. “Please. You’re both _very_ good at protecting me.”

Jon returns after midday with a maester, and her husband ushers her into the house as the old man sits at their table and eats, his horse taken to the pasture in the back. Dany explains how she has been feeling to the man, Jon lurking behind her, one hand on her shoulder, his thumb brushing back and forth across her bared skin. The maester listens intently, nodding occasionally at her words. Silence fills the sitting room once she finishes, the old man seeming to consider.

“I apologize for the brashness of this,” he says, eyeing her carefully. “But when did you last get your moonblood?”

Dany blinks, taken aback. Now that she thinks of it, she cannot remember— before they left for Winterfell, she thinks, perhaps even earlier. “Almost three months ago,” she says, brows furrowing. “But that shouldn’t matter. I cannot have children.”

“Mmm,” the man says. “Did another maester tell you this?”

Dany hesitates. “No,” she admits.

“Well, my dear, you seem to be exhibiting the very common symptoms that accompany the first few months of being with child. I am not sure how you came to be under the impression that you could not have them, but if you allow me to examine you more closely, I should be able to confirm for you.” Jon bristles at the implication, but she nods, undoing the ties on her dress deftly, allowing the garment to fall to the floor. The maester huffs at the sight of her, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, I don’t need to see anything else to know. Look for yourself,” he says, nodding towards the mirror on the other side of the room, and Dany turns, examining her profile. Her hands drift down to her stomach, cradling the barely-visible swell that she may not have even noticed if it had not been pointed out to her.

Tears flood her eyes as Jon helps her back into her gown, both of them having fallen silent. “I would guess you are about three moonturns along,” the maester says, smiling at both of them. “Thank you for the meal. I best get back. Congratulations,” he adds, and they both nod wordlessly, Jon showing the man out back to the pasture, where his horse waits.

Dany stands rooted in their small living room, eyes fixed on Jon as he shuts the door behind the maester. Neither of them say anything, completely thunderstruck. She can feel the tears gathering behind her eyes, her mouth falling open, but no words coming out. In a sudden rush, Jon is across the room, gathering her in his arms, squeezing her tightly.

“I—” Dany says, but she does not know what to say, what to _think._ This is something that she never imagined would be possible, even in her wildest, most far-fetched dreams.

“Dany,” Jon breathes, and she begins to cry, unable to hold back her tears of joy anymore. Her heart feels so full, wrapped up in the arms of the man she loves, with their child growing inside her. He pulls away slightly, just so he can meet her eyes, a hand cupping her face, brushing tears from her cheek. “Dany, you’re…”

“I’m carrying our child,” she says, a smile stretching across her lips, unable to be contained. Jon smiles back widely, in that rare, beautiful way that she is only blessed with on occasion. A laugh falls from his lips as he leans down to kiss her fiercely, and it is the most beautiful sound she has ever heard.

She is carrying their child. _Their child._ Inside of her, right now, a little life is stirring, growing stronger every minute, half her and half this wonderful man before her. It is something she never thought she would ever see, and yet she knows the truth of it, even after doubting it possible for so long.

“I knew that godsdamned witch was wrong,” Jon whispers, and she laughs, tears falling down her cheeks even faster. Jon’s eyes are wet as well, she sees, glistening with unshed tears. He falls to his knees before her, cupping the slight swell of her stomach, covering it with his kisses, feather light and full of love. “Hello, sweet,” he murmurs to her stomach, and she laughs, sinking her hands into his curls as he nuzzles at her stomach.

“I don’t… how is this possible?” Dany asks, and Jon looks up to meet her eyes, standing up so he can hold her again, arms locking around her as she buries her face in his shoulder.

“It’s you, Dany,” he whispers into her hair, as if that is adequate explanation. “You make impossible things happen.”

Hearing the determination in his voice, the absolute faith he has in her— perhaps it is explanation enough.

***

The nausea fades, she finds, as her pregnancy progresses, surprisingly much more to Jon’s relief than hers. As soon as they discover the true source of her ailment, Dany relaxes, remembering these same symptoms from early on when she carried Rhaego, and Jon somehow becomes more anxious, following behind her every step. “I’m pregnant, Jon, not made of glass,” she finally snaps at him one day, two months or so after the maester had confirmed she was with child. Jon recoils at the hostility in her tone, eyes going wide. She sighs, dropping the crate full of lemons she had just picked, Jon having chastised her for carrying things, though the box is far from heavy. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, walking closer to him. He shakes his head, a hand drifting down to rest over her stomach, the swell of their growing child much more prominent now than in the past few months. She can feel their babe move sometimes, a fluttery feeling against the side of her stomach that makes her heart race, full of love and excitement.

“No, you’re right,” Jon says, bowing his head. “I’m being foolish. I’m sorry.” He grins at her, to cupping her cheek in his hand. “You’re the farthest thing from glass, Dany. You’re valyrian steel.” She chuckles at his comparison, thinking of Longclaw resting inside their tiny house, safely stored in its sheath. She is somewhat like that sword, she thinks— sharp and beautiful, ancient and deadly when she needs to be. When it comes to protecting those she cares for.

“I’ll stop fretting, I promise,” he says, leaning in to kiss her. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you. Either of you.”

Dany smiles at that, eyes tracing the features of her husband’s face, this wonderful man who somehow cares for her as much as she cares for him. “I know,” she tells him, squeezing his hand, taking it and resting it over her belly again. “And I also know that you are going to be a wonderful father, once our babe is born.”

“I hope so,” Jon says, his brow furrowing, lovely eyes casting down. “I…” He hesitates, looking up to meet her gaze again. “I know my father loved me. Ned Stark, I mean. He couldn’t always show me kindness, or give me the same things as my siblings, but he cared for me. Still,” he says, eyes falling to their entwined hands, where they rest above their child, “I felt alone for so much of my childhood. Wondering if I ever even belonged there at all.”

“I know that feeling,” she murmurs, resting her head against his chest, Jon’s arms immediately settling around her. “I spent all of my childhood on the run. The only family I ever knew was Viserys, and he was cruel and horrible. He sold me off and threatened my life just to get what he wanted.” Jon’s arms tighten, his lips dropping a kiss on her temple, though there is nothing to do now but shut out bad memories. Viserys is gone, and Dany still lives, surrounded by love, by a home that is all hers. “I have no idea how to be a mother. The only children I’ve ever raised are dragons,” she says, laughing slightly. “But I know this.” She pulls away from Jon, just a bit, so she may look into his eyes, can run her thumb over his cheekbone. “Regardless of everything else, we will love this child more than anything in the world. And they will know how much they mean to us, from the very moment they enter this world.” She pauses, her eyes soft as they stare into her husband’s. “That may be all we can do. We will have to figure out the rest as we go, I think. But our babe will know they are loved, always. They will never feel alone in the world. That I know.”

“You’re right,” Jon whispers, leaning in, resting their foreheads together. “That, we will make sure of.”

Jon pulls her into his arms tightly that night in their bed, her back flush against his chest as his nose nudges at the hair at the nape of her neck, his hand snaking around to her front to rest over her stomach. She smiles, feeling the fluttering of their babe inside her, shifting Jon’s hand so that it rests right over the movement. “Do you feel her?” Dany asks, smiling, and she can hear Jon’s sharp intake of breath, his hand spreading wider across the swell of her belly.

“I do,” he murmurs in her ear, his thumb stroking up and down over where their babe kicks, before he presses his lips to her shoulder. “Her?” he asks, and she hums, not even realizing what she had said until Jon says it back to her. “You think it’s a girl?”

“I do,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. She can picture a little girl nestled into her arms, with ruddy cheeks and dark curls, as clear as day.

“I’d like a little girl,” he murmurs, voice still full of wonder as their babe kicks against his hand. “I hope she looks like you.” Jon kisses her shoulder again, warm lips lingering against her bare skin. “I hope she’s every bit as beautiful as her mother is. And kind, and clever. And brave.”

“Now you’re just flattering me,” Dany laughs, turning in her husband’s arms so that she may see his face. Jon smiles back at her, eyes shining with love.

“Aye, but it’s true,” he says. “You’re all those things and more, Dany. And I know our child will be every bit as good as you are.”

She has to kiss him at that, her heart practically melting at the sincerity in his words. Jon smiles against her lips, his tongue sliding against hers, sighing softly into her mouth as she kisses him, slow and sweet.

“We haven’t talked about names,” she whispers when they break apart, foreheads pressed together, the intoxicating, comforting scent of Jon filling her up.

“No, we haven’t,” he says, kissing her nose lightly, making her smile again. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“I was thinking,” Dany says, hesitant to proceed. She has a name in mind, but she is not entirely sure what he will think of it.

“I was thinking we could name her for your mother,” she finally says, holding her breath to see Jon’s reaction. He remains silent, eyes searching hers for something she is not sure of. “Not Lyanna, exactly,” she rushes to add. “But something like it. To honor her.”

Jon still does not say anything, but slowly his eyes find hers, and he nods. “I like that idea,” he whispers, and his voice sounds choked, almost, full of emotion. She tightens her arms around him, pulling him to her as best she can with her swollen stomach between them. And when he rests his head against her chest, her fingers threading through his curls, there is nothing that needs to be said between them for them to understand each other.

Their daughter enters the world on a hot summer night, rain pounding the ground and thunder rumbling in a storm to rival the one Dany was born into herself. Jon has been jumpy all day, ever since she entered labor and he ran to fetch two of the midwives from the village. Lightning flashes outside the safe recluse of their tiny cottage, bright enough to make it seem as if it is high noon for a moment, before the sky turns back to blackness, endless sheets of rain falling down.

Despite the storm, their baby girl is born with no complications, her tiny red face scrunched and screaming the moment the midwife pulls her into the world. Dany collapses against Jon’s chest as soon as she hears their babe’s frail cry pierce the room, exhausted and pained, face sweaty and red. Jon strokes her hair back from her sticky skin, soothing her as her eyes slide closed briefly, no energy remaining in her body.

“Dany,” Jon whispers, leaning forward, and his voice sounds choked, overwhelmed. She opens her eyes, arms reaching out without thinking as the midwife offers her their babe, small and squalling, wrapped in a tiny little blanket.

All the exhaustion, all the pain, _everything_ disappears from her mind the second their daughter is placed in her arms. Dany can feel the tears gather in her eyes, trying to blink them away so she can see the tiny girl in perfect clarity, memorize every detail of her sweet face. _“Ñuha dōna,”_ Dany whispers, a finger tracing against her daughter’s tiny cheek, Jon’s arms still wrapped around her. She watches as her husband reaches down, brushing downy black curls from her little forehead, both of their breaths catching when she opens her mouth, face scrunching in displeasure at having been brought into this noisy, bright world.

“She’s perfect,” Jon says, his voice strangled, and she tears her eyes away from her daughter to look at her husband, the tears sliding down his cheek, the emotion so clear across his face. She leans up to press a kiss to his bearded jaw, and he smiles at her, eyes overflowing with love for them both.

“Do you have a name?” one of the midwives asks, busy tidying up the room.

“Aye,” Jon responds, eyes still trapped on their baby girl, hand covering Dany’s shoulder. “Lyrianna Targaryen. Stormborn, like her mother.”

“Hello, my sweet girl,” Dany croons at her, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss to her small forehead. “Our little Lya.” She inhales as Lya yawns, eyes opening blearily, a beautiful, brilliant shade of blue that matches Dany’s exactly.

Jon climbs into bed next to her once the room is tidied, the bedclothes changed, the midwives sleeping in the spare room until the storm breaks. She passes the tiny bundle over to him once he is seated next to her, her head dropping to his shoulder, watching his fingers trace their daughter’s tiny features.

“Gods, she’s so beautiful,” Jon marvels, a small smile tugging at his lips, disbelief written all over his face. “I cannot believe she is real.”

“Neither can I,” Dany hums, leaning in closer to him, to their girl. Their _family._ It seems incredible, now, looking into the face of this tiny life they created together. After Rhaego, Dany never let herself even dream of having something like this again. “Thank you,” she whispers to her husband, burying her face in his neck, arms still looped around him. She can feel Jon chuckle into her, his cheek resting against the top of her head.

“Why are you thanking me?” he asks her, and she smiles into his chest.

“For giving me all of this,” she says. “A family. A home. A love stronger than I ever imagined I would have.”

He remains silent for a moment, and she shifts, lifting her head so she may see his lovely eyes, overflowing with emotion at her words. “I could thank you for all the same things, love,” he tells her, kissing her briefly. “I never thought I would have any of this. I never even dreamed that I could someday be this happy. And yet, you did. And your dreams come true.”

Dany smiles, resting her head against his arm again, looking at the tiny babe held between them, cradled in his strong arms, protected from everything in the world. He is right— this is everything she had ever dreamed of, and more. So much more. She reaches down, stroking Lya’s cheek once more, before she opens her mouth to whisper to him.

“This one certainly has.”

***

“Lya, careful, wait for me!”

Dany cannot help but smile as she watches Jon tear across the sand, chasing their little girl, Ghost right at his heels. Lya does nothing but laugh, her dark braid flying behind her, loose curls whipping in the wind from the ocean. She scrambles up onto the enormous rocks that pile together and protrude into the sea, hands set firmly on her hips as she stares across the beach, surveying her domain.

“Lya,” Torrhen pouts, surveying his older sister. “Not fair. Papa said we’re not supposed to climb on the rocks.”

“And I appreciate you listening to me,” Jon tells their son, ruffling his raven locks. Dany’s heart squeezes, seeing the sour look on her little boy’s face— while Lya is a mix of both of them, Torrhen looks _exactly_ like his father. Dany stands carefully, gentle as to not disturb the sleeping babe in her arms. Alysanne is but five moonturns old, still tiny, Dany petting her downy silver curls back when the sea breeze ruffles them, the baby girl shifting in her sleep, still nestled in her mother’s arms.

“You, on the other hand, little wolf,” Jon says, reaching out and plucking Lya from her post on top of the tall rocks. She squirms in her father’s arms, draping her arms around Ghost’s neck and sighing in a very put-off manner the moment Jon places her on the ground. “You know you shouldn’t be climbing on the rocks without my help.”

“But I wanted to be queen of the beach, Papa,” she says, pressing a kiss to Ghost’s snout. The wolf chuffs at her, licking her cheek and making her giggle.

Dany’s heart clenches, because in another life, perhaps Lyrianna _would_ be a queen. If she had decided to rule after taking King’s Landing, her daughter would be a princess, live in a palace and have endless fine things. When she was little, that was what Dany dreamed of— being queen, ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and having all the fineries that accompany such a post. But now, with her husband and her three children, their wolf and their dragon and all the farm animals, in their perfect little cottage— Dany knows she would trade a thousand kingdoms for this life. This life means more to her than any iron chair ever could have.

Westeros prospers now, she knows. The Council of the People serves the country well. And here in Braavos, with their lemon trees and cottage with a red door, Jon and Dany prosper as well.

“You can be a queen and still listen to your father, love,” Dany says, kneeling down next to her eldest child. “A smart queen knows when to listen to those who know more than her, and heed their council.” Her eyes meet Jon’s, thinking of a moment in what feels like a different lifetime, when she had been perched on Drogon’s back, ready to burn King’s Landing to the ground. But she had heard his words then, known he was right. And he had saved her.

“I know,” Lya sighs, eyes falling down towards the sand. Torrhen has lost interest in his sister’s disobedience, wandering towards the water’s edge instead, the waves crashing over his tiny feet, making him stumble back.

“Careful, love,” Jon says, coming up behind him, taking one of his hands in each of his, letting Torrhen lean against his father’s stronger legs. Torrhen giggles as the waves crash over their legs, their son’s pants soaked in sea water.

“Hello baby Aly,” Lya says, bending down to press a kiss to her sister’s forehead. The baby’s eyes flutter open, the same warm, rich brown as Jon’s, her tiny brow furrowing at being woken. “Mama, when will she be old enough to play with me and Torrhen?”

Dany laughs, her free arm pulling her eldest child into her, before dropping a kiss on her crown. “Not for some time, love. She’s still little.”

“That’s okay,” Lya says, hugging her mother back. “I’ll protect her while she’s still small. We all will.”

“We will,” Dany says, heart squeezing, almost unable to handle so much love. It seems so strange now, after being alone for so long, losing so much. Dany had thought her heart was broken beyond repair, long ago. And now, every day of this life she has with Jon, with their children, shows her just how wrong she had truly been.

“Come on, Torrhen!” Lya says, pulling away from her mother and running to her younger brother, still with his toes in the water. “Let’s look for seashells.”

“Be careful,” Jon calls after them, letting Lya grab Torrhen’s hand and pull him down the shoreline. Dany smiles, walking up to her husband, leaning into his side at the same time his arms wrap around her, the movement so natural it does not even require thinking.

“What are you thinking of, love?” Jon asks her, his head resting against hers. She hums contently, turning quickly to press a kiss to his lips. Even now, after all these years, it sends a thrill through her, knowing he is hers, as she is his.

“How happy I am,” she tells him, and he smiles softly, the adoration shining in her eyes reflected in his. “How grateful I am for you, and for our life. For all you’ve given me.” She laughs, eyes looking out towards the horizon, the country she knows lays across the sea before them. “When a man they called the King in the North answered my summons and then refused to bend the knee, I never thought it would end like this.”

“Aye, me either,” Jon says, smiling at her as their youngest babe babbles in her arms, their other two children racing down the beach with Ghost. “But I am glad it did.”

Dany smiles at that, for she is too.

**Author's Note:**

> Ñuha dōna= my sweet


End file.
